Meet You on the Other Side
by balladofbliss
Summary: Andy joins the task force, only to find her career isn't what needed to be fixed in the first place. Picks up at the end of 3x13.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I'm spending the next nine months in the happy land of denial and fanfiction. Who's with me?

Disclaimer: If I owned Rookie Blue, we would all be issuing the bulk of Season 3 a massive 'disregard.' Story title comes from "Bend and Break" by Keane.

* * *

It turns out undercover isn't really her thing.

She plays the part just fine – not like she hasn't slipped into a role on the job before – but doing it 24/7 is exhausting. Becoming Maureen, who lives in a room above the laundromat where she works, means changing her speech, her demeanor, the way she walks. She tries to immerse herself, tries not to wonder how Sam could do it for months at a time – because starting to think about Sam means it's nearly impossible to stop.

One of several businesses owned by the Gill family (Nick is working across the city at a men's clothing store), the laundromat is more or less the redheaded stepchild of the entire operation. No one is ever around, which means Andy has no problem slipping into the office and reading files before opening up each morning, but it doesn't take long to realize that there's a reason for that. After about a month, she and her handler reach the consensus that she's in one of the only squeaky-clean outfits the Gills maintain. They're pulling her out, Stephen tells her, his voice crackling across her disposable cell; they can't risk putting her anywhere else, in case she's recognized. She'll be reassigned to headquarters or returned to her division.

Per Stephen's instructions, she slips down the fire escape at three in the morning, scaling the fence in the alley and walking four blocks to a beat-up Camry. By the time she's finished with the initial debrief, the sun is coming up. Stephen asks if she wants a ride, but she can't go home yet. Doesn't want to see the picturesque loft windows and exposed brick walls that were so important to her, not all that long ago. So she accepts his offer, but gives him directions to the only place she can think of going.

When Sam answers the bell, his eyes go from heavy-lidded with sleep to wide with surprise. He doesn't say a word, just braces himself on either side of the frame.

"They didn't give me a chance to tell anyone," she says quickly, more than half convinced he's going to slam the door in her face.

Instead, he wordlessly swings it open and jerks his head toward the house's interior, turning around and walking back in.

He's on the couch by the time she shuts the door and makes it to the living room, glancing at her expectantly.

"I would've told you," she continues. "I would have, Sam. You know how it is when they say you're going under right then. No time to let people know where you're going or grab a drink or… or listen to a voicemail." She tries to smile, but he's still giving her that look. Still hasn't said anything, and every second of silence is scaring her more.

"What happened to you?" he finally asks.

She raises an eyebrow. "What?"

He motions abstractly to his face. "You look like a vampire."

_Right, that_. She knows she's become pale – sort of hard to get any color when you never go outside and your diet consists mostly of delicacies native to vending machines – but she hasn't really had anyone around to point it out to her. She reaches up, fingertips brushing over her cheeks and settling in the rat's nest of a bun on top of her head. "I guess it was part of my character."

He blinks. "You sleep much?"

She shakes her head.

"Eat?"

She shrugs.

He rubs a hand over his face. "Sit down."

She obliges. As she sinks into the couch, though, he rises. "Where are you…"

He looks back at her impassively, then proceeds out of the room. She hears ceramic settle on granite, suddenly smells coffee that she realizes must have been brewing before she arrived. _The universe would be doomed without the preset option_, she remembers him saying before more than one morning shift.

He comes back out and puts two mugs down on the coffee table before retreating back to the kitchen. A few minutes later, he returns with a bowl in each hand. The one he places before her contains the berry granola cereal she likes; as far as she knew throughout months of dating, he doesn't. Sure enough, his bowl appears to hold Cheerios. She's way too tired to think about it in any kind of depth, but one thing is certain: when he was in the locker room, telling her about everything he'd do to show her, he apparently wasn't screwing around.

They're silent until they're both fed and caffeinated. "Is it done?" he asks eventually, setting his empty mug down.

She shakes her head. "I was in a clean front. Now they want me in headquarters, working with the operations people."

He nods slowly. "Is that what you want?"

"I don't know," she says. "I should, you know, finish the job, right?"

(She does want it, truth be told. But she wants him more.)

"Are headquarters nearby?" he asks.

She shrugs. "An hour or so away. It means staying out there for two, three months until they figure out a plan. Then… I don't know. I come back to Fifteen or find something else… it depends."

"On?"

She feels her heart lurch forward like it's trying to shove its way out through her ribs. "Did you mean it?"

He looks at her like she's sprouted another head. "Did I… I told you I meant it."

She takes a deep breath. "Right. Right, you did. Um… but do you still? Mean it?"

"If I still love you?" he posits, leaning forward. "You really have to ask?"

_Inhale, exhale. Just keep that up_. "Okay. Okay."

He laughs mirthlessly. "Why? Did you stop?"

She looks at him then, really looks. All of his defenses, the anger and sarcasm and stoicism are gone, and she's left staring at every vulnerability he's ever tried to hide. Knowing how easily she could break him right now with a single word – it's the kind of power she's never wanted to have.

So she reaches for his hand, gently pries it off his knee. Cranes her neck a little to make sure she's looking him in the eye. "Never."

He seems to relax a bit at that; intertwines his fingers with hers like it's automatic, involuntary.

"If you want me here, I'll tell them no," she continues softly. "It really doesn't matter that much to me, it's really just…"

He shakes his head. "Go," he tells her. "I know it matters to you. Finish what you started, I'll be here when it's done."

She thinks about protesting, knows he isn't going to hear any of it. She squeezes his hand, moves forward to rest her forehead against his. "You sure?"'

"I said you wouldn't get rid of me without a fight," he says quietly. "Already screwed that one up once; I'm not gonna do it again. I can be incredibly patient, Andy. This… you need to do this for yourself, all right?"

"I love you," she whispers.

He closes his eyes. "Love you."

When she kisses him, it's brief – too early and too late to complicate things by moving fast where they shouldn't – but holds all of the potential and promises she doesn't know how to put into words, all of the secrets she choked down and kept to herself and allowed to climb in between them.

Someday, she'll figure out how to tell him everything. Hopes he's making a similar vow to himself. But right now, she has to go.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks for the reviews/alerts/favorites! This is going to be a multi-chapter endeavor that'll continue until the relationship has actually been worked on and built back up into something truly solid – meaning we might be here for a while. :) It also means that things are going to have to get worse before they get better, but trust that they eventually will get better whenever these characters are in my hands.

Reviews are brain food, so please let me know what you think.

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

* * *

They pick her up later that morning.

It's about an hour each way from the task force center to her place – probably longer, since she doesn't have a car, and she needs to be nearby in case there's some sudden big break in a case – so she opts for the accommodations they're offering. Luke's explanations of what to expect were rushed and truncated (some things never change), but she was anticipating something like a hotel, maybe an apartment. Nothing elaborate or exceptionally comfortable, but when she unlocks the door, the somewhat dilapidated space she finds can only be described as 'glorified dorm room.' Sparse double bed, ratty futon, one of those narrow desk-and-chair combinations that belongs in a lecture hall. A TV hangs high on the wall, reminiscent of a hospital. No kitchen, just a microwave resting atop a mini-fridge in one corner; the shelf above holds a few unmatched plastic plates and cups and an ancient-looking electric kettle. She's pretty sure the square footage of the bathroom is less than the interior of a cruiser. But still, she thinks as she begins placing her clothes in the narrow beat-up dresser wedged in beside the bed, it's just a place to sleep. She's here to make strides in her career, and if anything, the lackluster furnishings will encourage her to focus all of her energies on the job at hand.

Except when she walks in the next day, ten minutes early in business casual and her best tough-but-approachable expression, it's like that time she got into a huge fight with Shelly Robinson after a field hockey game, and the whole team took Shelly's side. (The rest of that season kind of sucked.) People's eyes widen with recognition upon reading her nametag, then almost instantly narrow with thinly veiled disdain as they turn back to one another. She catches snippets as she walks to the front of the room (because why _wouldn't_ they put the coffee in the most conspicuous place possible?): _engaged_ and _must have something on Callaghan_; _training officer_ and _conduct unbecoming_. She sets her jaw firmly, her fists clenching and unclenching in an attempt to make her hands quit shaking, and fills a paper cup from the carafe. She carries it to a seat in an unoccupied corner of the room, chokes it down black because forgoing the milk and sugar means twenty extra seconds of not being scrutinized. Pretends to be engrossed in something on her phone until Luke walks in and commences the meeting.

Thankfully, he launches right into the objectives – after the reaction generated by her entrance into the assembly room, she wasn't exactly looking forward to everyone going around the room and introducing themselves – but the uneasiness returns to the pit of her stomach when Luke announces his divide-and-conquer method of using the information gained during the undercover ops to profile the major organized crime families. (Some of them are still going on; Nick's apparently pulling up all kinds of dirt on the Gills.) He splits the group into committees, and Andy finds herself at a table with three other people, none of whom exactly seem welcoming. Jason and Daphne are both from 35 Division and seem to have zero interest in interacting with anyone other than each other, and Sheila… well, she's pretty clearly a piece of work. For two people who have never before met, she also somehow has a frighteningly comprehensive knowledge of Andy's suspension. Every time Andy tries to share what she's gleaned from her experience in the field, or makes a suggestion about how to organize the information they have, Sheila's right there with an eye roll and a sarcastic retort. By the end of the first day, Andy's saying less and less, simply nodding flatly and carrying out whatever small tasks are tossed her way – which prompts Sheila to remark, "Nice that three out of four of us actually contribute, isn't it?"

Andy bites the inside of her mouth hard enough to draw blood. She thinks about confronting Sheila at the end of the day, reminding her that they need to be able to work together – but it seems futile when the message is clear. _You don't belong here. I'm not going to let you forget it._

The first day sets the tone for the rest of the week; then for the next, and the one after. Andy finds herself drowning in frustration, feels stifled by the silence that her colleagues have imposed on her and infuriated with her apparent inability to defy it. With the exception of a briefing each morning, Luke is usually running around doing other things, and she suspects that approaching him with her concerns would just make the situation worse. The hours are long, which wouldn't bother her if she felt she was doing anything useful.

She tries taking a couple of long runs around town to quell her dissatisfaction and the early whispers of regret; not only do they not help, but after getting lost multiple times and caught in a horrendous sleet-ridden downpour, she's pretty sure she now sucks at her job _and _is at risk for pneumonia. She spends most of her downtime alone in her room after that, surfing the Internet listlessly on her phone and flipping through the seven available channels that the TV offers. (Watching the baseball network in the off-season? Not what anyone would call scintillating.) Most of her meals outside of work consist of frozen microwaveable trays from the corner store and cold toaster pastries. _Pathetic_, she pronounces herself at least once an hour.

She knows the worst part is that it's so _not_ her to shut down like this. To give up and take other people's shit. Maybe this opportunity, great as it is, just isn't the right one for her – and now she's stuck. Or maybe… maybe she really _doesn't_ belong here. She's so accustomed to excelling at nearly everything she does – not always at first (_definitely_ not always at first), but things eventually click and she gets there. It's possible that she just won't this time, and while she realizes that everybody has their weak spots, discovering that one of hers might be the very thing for which she fought so hard – gave up so much – really, _really_ sucks.

To top it all off, she's been having dreams every few nights, wherein she's holding the bomb again, but the outcome is… well, not as good. She must have staved them off while undercover, given her meticulous efforts to remain Maureen at all costs. There are a few different endings, but she wakes up each time the same way regardless: sitting bolt upright in bed, gasping for air like she's taken a sucker punch to the stomach. Lack of quality sleep is probably not doing her any favors when it comes to articulating her ideas at work.

She plasters on a smile and a chipper tone when she talks to her dad, and to Traci. A lot of talk about how much more involved the regional crime families are than she'd ever known, about how much she's learning. (Mostly, she's learning exactly how badly she wants to get the hell out of this place – but they don't need to know that.) Curiously, Claire doesn't call, even after a few texts and a voicemail; Andy wonders if by 'take advantage of a new opportunity', her mother actually meant 'leave everyone behind and expect them not to care.' It would certainly explain a lot.

On Thursday of the third week, she arrives back at her room after eight with a Lean Cuisine and a new stash of strawberry Pop-Tarts, stomps off the excess snow that clings to the rims of her boots. She hears a faint tinny melody in her bag as she's shrugging off her coat, which has stopped by the time she sets everything down and digs out her phone. One missed call from Sam. They've texted almost daily since she left, but it hasn't been anything all that significant or lengthy. He mentioned that he'd started detective coursework while she was still under (which actually did prompt her to call him, if only to make sure he wasn't pulling some kind of prank on her), and she's theoretically rocking things out over here, so it's certainly understandable that they're busy. Staring at his name on the screen, she can't decide if she needs to talk to him right now like she needs air to breathe, or a hole in the head. (Always one or the other with him, especially when she's trying to keep something under wraps.)

So she takes her time putting things away, placing her dripping boots in the tiny shower stall, changing into pajamas before she picks up the phone again. He answers on the second ring; she hears shuffling, sounds of a television abruptly shutting off in the background before he speaks. "McNally."

She feels stupid for smiling up at the ugly popcorn ceiling – all he said was her name, for crying out loud – but she can't help it. "Hey."

"How's the almighty task force?" The grin in his voice makes her feel a little better.

"It's, um…" She falters, knowing all the diplomacy in the world isn't going to stop him from seeing through her. In the end, she doesn't have any other ideas – besides telling him the truth, which isn't about to happen. "It's so interesting. I'm learning a ton."

"Oh, yeah?" He clears his throat. "Like what?"

"Well…" She gears up for her newly patented go-task-force-go stump speech. "I mean, organized crime in this city – really, in the whole province – it goes so far beyond what you'd think. I didn't see how broad it stretches when I was under. I mean, using a day care center as a front for their operations? That's just a new level of corruption, right? And did you know they sometimes put up rivalries as fronts when they're really working together? I mean, it's like..."

"How are the people you're working with?"

She squeezes her eyes shut. _Damn it, Sam_. "They're, you know… they bring a lot of experience to the table, a lot of good experience, and…"

"Andy," he interrupts, soft but forthright. "It's me, all right? You… you don't have to save face or anything here."

"I'm not," she protests weakly. "I'm totally fine, things are… I mean, there's just so much to it, you know? Anyway, how are _you_? How's the detective stuff? That's got to be a lot too."

"Not bad," he responds. "Two courses down, two to go. Finished yesterday. I get a break before the next round starts in a few weeks."

"And you like it?"

She can pretty much hear his shrug. "It's something different. From what I'm being told, there's a lot more I can do with it than read files and dig through bones."

"That's good," she says, nodding vigorously as if he can see her. "Isn't it?"

"Yeah," he agrees. "If I can get off the streets without spending all my time behind a desk, I'll take it."

She pauses. "You're serious, then? About getting out of uniform?"

"Nah, I just like spending three nights a week in classes I never intend to use," he jokes. "I think it's pretty long overdue, actually. I need to try something new here… maybe it'll clear up a few other things at the same time."

"Such as?" she can't help asking, despite already having a pretty decent idea of what he's talking about.

"Well…" He pauses momentarily. "It's possible I'm waiting for someone here. Probably ought to make sure that she's got something worth coming back to, right?"

Her smile nearly splits her face in two. "Not to feed your ego, but I can't imagine you wouldn't be worth it."

"Really."

"Mm-hmm."

"Even though, uh…" The levity in his voice fades away. "Even though there's still a lot of work to do? You know, before things are… I'm loath to say _normal_, but…"

What she wouldn't give to be able to touch him right now. "Worth it," she responds decisively.

(Not that she has any idea how they're going to get from where they are to where they need to be – but both of them wanting it is half the battle. Has to be.)

They're silent for a minute until he clears his throat again. "It's getting kind of late."

"Yeah, yeah," she agrees too quickly. "I have to be up super early, so…"

"Right," he says. "So we'll talk soon."

She'd rather just keep talking now, never stop. Spill the truth about what's happening here, if that's what it takes to keep hearing his voice – but instead she just tells him, "Of course."

"Okay, then." He pauses once more, and she knows he's trying to figure out what he wants to say. "Andy?"

"Yeah?"

"Miss you."

She takes a deep breath, presses her teeth into her lip to keep it from quivering. "I miss you too, Sam."

"Goodnight."

"Night."

She presses 'end call,' tosses her phone to the other side of the bed. Just as well that sleep is something without which she's been learning to live.

* * *

Task force members are off on the weekends, although they're expected to be able to get to the center within half an hour if they're called in. Luke assures the group that it's unlikely to happen in general, and if it does, it'll probably be during the second stage a few months down the line. (Andy feels her heart sink when he tells them this; how long did she sign on for here, exactly?) As it stands right now, she's more than content not to see any of those people for a couple of days, even if it means being bored out of her mind.

Maybe this weekend can be different, she reasons. She can see a movie, or get some food that hasn't been processed to death, or something. Anything to kill a couple of lonely hours before she can get on with this thing.

It doesn't faze her when someone knocks at the door; after a pipe burst in the basement earlier this week, the super has been checking apartments for water pressure all day. She thought he came by when she was at work, but it _is_ a fairly big building, so… When she opens the door, though, it's not the super on the other side.

Sam stands there with his hands in his pockets, that grin on his face that manages to be sheepish and cocky simultaneously. His hair is slightly damp with melted snow. "I said we'd talk soon, right?"

Andy feels her jaw drop and eyes widen. "What are you… How…"

He shrugs. "I have a couple of days off, and… I don't know, the whole way here I was debating between 'I was in the neighborhood' and 'I must've taken a wrong turn.' Still don't know which one I like better, so you can pick your favo- _oof."_

He chuckles, stumbling backward a couple of steps into the hallway as she impulsively launches herself at him. "Happy to see me or something, McNally?"

She pulls back a little to look at him, not removing her arms from around his neck. "What gave it away?" she laughs. She can smell winter on his skin, feel the chill of his jacket through the thermal she tossed on a few minutes before. "Do you want to come in? Not that there's all that much to see, just…"

"That would be good." He grins as he releases her, letting her lead him inside.

She closes the door behind him, motions for him to sit down. She knows they're still in some level of limbo she can't even begin to comprehend, but she's so overwhelmed with the sight of him, so thrilled to see somebody who wants to see _her_, that right now she's finding it hard to care. "Did you want something to drink? There's water from the tap, or I could make tea. Not that I _have_ any tea, but I could…"

"Andy?" He smiles at her from his spot on the futon. "Come here. I don't want to be alone on this... unbelievably crappy piece of furniture."

She takes a seat beside him, folding herself into a cross-legged position. She shifts a little. "God, this thing _is _terrible."

"Nothing but the best for our elite men and women in uniform," he deadpans.

She smiles. "Of course."

He stretches his arms across the back of the futon and exhales slowly. "So was today any better?"

_Better than what?_ she thinks about asking – but playing dumb is just going to delay the inevitable. Remembering their conversation last night, it occurs to her that this is what it means to work on things. He's asking for honesty; she needs to deliver it.

"Interest of full disclosure?" she asks.

He nods.

"Today was the same. It's been the same since I got here," she begins, eyes on her folded hands in her lap. "Just… really hard."

His hand drifts down, settles on her knee. "You knew this was no joke going in," he points out gently.

She shakes her head. "Yeah, I know. But this is… it's not what I thought it would be."

It takes countless prompts from him to draw it out of her, but eventually she tells him everything: about how her private life somehow became public knowledge amongst a group of strangers, how she's made to feel like everything she says is wrong or useless, how she's wondering if she's even capable of anything beyond the role of a beat cop – or ever will be. By the end, she's slumped down on the futon, legs stretched out across his lap. His hand runs along her calf as he considers her words.

"Sheila what?"

That one throws Andy for a loop. She was expecting something more along the lines of _hang in there_. "Come again?"

"What's Sheila's last name? You know it?"

"Um… Baylor."

"From 10 Division? Blonde hair, face kind of looks like a weasel's?"

Andy laughs. "You know her?"

"We went through the Academy together," Sam nods. "Pretty sure Noelle still thinks about her during target practice. Turned into a solid cop, but she's not the most pleasant person to spend time around."

"How does she know so much about me? How do all of them know?" Andy wonders.

He shrugs. "TPS is a small world. Things happen, people talk."

"Well, that's just…" She buries her face in her hands with a groan. "So for the rest of my career, I'm going to be the cop who only got picked for a task force because her ex-fiancé is trying to make amends for cheating on her, and who slept with her former training officer while he was undercover and almost got him killed."

"Hey." Sam's voice comes out forceful, vehement enough to startle her into looking at him. "Getting made by Brennan was _not_ because of you. Want to hear it again? It wasn't your fault. You were not to blame. I'm going to keep saying it until you get it through your head. Clear?"

She bites her lip. "Crystal."

"Good. And Callaghan wasn't about to be guilted into giving someone a spot. You got it because he thought you'd do well."

"So much for that," she snorts. "I'm a mess."

"You're not a mess," he counters. "You're letting people walk all over you because you're scared of what they think. Spend your time with the people who don't care about rumors or scandals, all right?"

She nods slowly. "And what do I do about the Sheilas of the world?"

"You tell them where they can shove it," he replies, not missing a beat. "You walk in there on Monday and don't let anything or anyone hold you back from doing what you're capable of. Okay?"

Before she can answer, her stomach growls loudly.

They both laugh. "I take it you haven't eaten," Sam says.

"Not since…" Andy glances at her watch, tries to count backward in her head. "It's been a while."

"No big dinner plans as of yet?"

She shakes her head. "Unless you count frozen lemon chicken in a plastic tray…"

"Which I don't." He smiles. "There's a place not too far from here that's supposed to have the best burgers in the neighborhood."

"You spend a lot of time out here or something?"

He shrugs. "I may have done some research."

"You…" Her face actually hurts, she's grinning so hard. _This man_. "Okay. I can do a burger."

As they stand up, reaching for jackets and shoes, he adds, "There's a hotel next to it, too. So when we're done, I can drop you back here and then…"

"Oh." She looks up from her bootlaces. "You didn't want to…"

"It's not…" He hesitates a little. "I don't want to impose. Or, you know, make you think I came up here for some reason other than wanting to see you."

He's always been cute when he gets awkward. "Sam." She does her best to maintain a straight face. "Are you trying to tell me that we don't have to take our clothes off to have a good time?"

He looks at her in disbelief before breaking into laughter. "Did you really just…" He pinches the bridge of his nose. "You are too many things, McNally."

"Like you'd have it any other way."

"Touché," he acknowledges, shoulders still shaking a little. "But really, I can pick you up for breakfast in the morning, not a big deal..."

"Sam." She takes a step toward him.

"Andy."

"Stay?"

He smiles. "Okay. On one condition."

"Name it."

He puts his hands on her shoulders. "You start eating food that required a person to prepare it. I'm not saying _you_ have to do it – I mean, not like they've given you a lot to work with here, but it might not be a bad idea if over half your meals _don't_ start out wrapped in plastic."

She smiles. "Deal."

"Okay, then." He squeezes her shoulders lightly before releasing them, one hand reaching toward the small of her back to guide her toward the door. "Let's go."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks so much for the great feedback from the last chapter! We're back, and the cracks in the veneer are starting to show just a little here. Reviews are very much welcomed – bonus points and a cookie for anyone who can identify the 'syndicated dramedy' that's referenced here. :) Let me know what you think, and thanks again for reading!

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

* * *

Monday morning, Andy spends a good minute and a half fixing her coffee, then sits down next to someone to whom she hasn't spoken instead of isolating herself in the back. (Turns out her new seat buddy's name is Diana, she's from 34, and she's been dying to pick Andy's brain about deep undercover.) When they break into their committees, she shares her ideas without reserve. Sheila begins to scoff the first time Andy opens her mouth; Andy responds cheerfully, "I've been listening to you for weeks. Now you get to listen to me. That's not a problem, is it?"

(The blonde makes a bit of a face, but her sullen silence seems to indicate that no, it will apparently _not_ be a problem.)

When she leaves that evening, there's a text from Sam waiting for her; he must have sent it before beginning the first of several night shifts this week. _Better?_

She quickly types out, _Much. Thank you for everything._

A few minutes later, as she's walking the few blocks back to her residence, she gets a response. _No need. It's all you, McNally._ Before she can begin to compose a reply, her phone buzzes again.

_Epstein's driving right now, so in case I don't get another chance to mention it, I love you._

The rest of the way back, passersby give her strange looks – undoubtedly wondering what's responsible for the stupid grin on her face.

* * *

She calls Traci the next night, after Leo's bedtime. "So I think Sam and I are dating," she volunteers, after they've updated one another on work.

"You're back together?" Traci says in disbelief.

"Not… well, I don't know if I'd put it that way," Andy corrects, more than aware of the herd of elephants that perpetually surround them. "More 'dating', like, literally going on dates." Following the burger joint, there was a weekend brunch place he'd read about, then the flea market they'd stumbled upon, the used bookstore down the street, the blockbuster for which they saw the trailer together last summer… not a bad way to spend a couple of days, Andy reasons.

"Okay, fine. But when, if you're there and he's been in classes and stuff?"

"He stayed up here this weekend, and we…"

She hears Traci groan into the phone. "In what _universe_ is that taking it slow, Andy?"

"Trace, he slept on the futon. His idea." He insisted, actually, despite Andy's protests that he'd destroy his back and _come on, it's not like either of us have that little self-control, right?_ – even though if she's honest with herself, they probably don't – but he dug his heels in, drew an indelible line. (He waited to crack his neck the next day until he thought she wasn't looking.) "It's different than it was. Like, he's really trying. Holds doors open, pulls out chairs. Makes me eat vegetables and takes the garbage down the hall to the chute, stuff like that. It's kind of sweet."

It's also kind of weird, the whole chivalrous thing, and she's truthfully wondering if it's all just temporary until they end up back in the holding pattern that was their previous relationship. Not that that's an inevitability, she hopes, but as long as Doting Sam chooses to stick around, she'll fully admit that she doesn't hate it.

"Just be careful," Traci warns. "I don't see either of you coming back from another breakup."

Andy wrinkles her nose. "How do you know he wouldn't? Not that we're officially together right now, meaning we technically _can't _break up, but…"

"You forget that we've been working together more since he started detective training. He's good, by the way. But when you and Nick first went under, he was _not_ a lot of fun to be around. It got a little better once we found out where you were, but he was still a wreck."

Andy nods. "Wow."

"Yeah. Look, I honestly hope you work things out. Just take care of yourself first, all right? And keep taking things slow."

"I will. Um… we will."

"Slow for normal people," Traci clarifies. "Not slow for you two."

"Okay," Andy laughs. "I'll keep that in mind."

* * *

There's light snowfall on and off for the rest of the week, but a full-blown blizzard is expected to hit the area before seven on Friday, so the task force gets out well before that, just to be on the safe side. Sam texts her to ask, of course, just after he gets out of work on Friday morning; she lets him know about the plans for an abbreviated day. His reply comes in the mid-afternoon: _Good. Just got up. Chinese okay tonight?_

Andy feels a pang in her stomach as she rereads the message. She doesn't expect him to keep doing this, honestly feels a little bad that he's killing all his time off driving out here to stay in her shitty excuse for an apartment – but if she tells him he doesn't have to come, he'll probably think she doesn't want to see him, and the misunderstanding will unquestionably spiral into a much bigger thing than it's worth.

(Plus, she kind of really does want to see him.)

It's almost five-thirty when she arrives back at the Crap Shack – kudos to her favorite syndicated dramedy for that one – her coat covered in the rapidly increasing snow from outside. She attempts to brush herself off as the elevator begins its excruciatingly slow and squeaky ascent, and as the door jerks open like a dull saw, she spots a figure in a dark jacket standing down the hall, across from the approximate location of her door.

She feels a smile creep across her face as she approaches him. "You're not bartering with people to get weekends off, are you?" she calls out. "Because trust me, you don't want to owe Dov a favor."

Sam smirks. "What's the worst he's gonna make me do? Dress up for a comic-book convention?"

She laughs as she digs for her keys in her pocket. "Actually, he'd probably never cash it in, just remind you every other day for the rest of your life. Although… seeing you in tights might be better than watching him lord it over your head indefinitely."

He raises his eyebrows, follows her inside. "Just so we're clear, did you want dinner or not?"

She shoots him a cheeky grin. "I have Pop-Tarts."

He places the plastic takeout bag on top of the microwave. "Shrimp with garlic sauce, chicken and broccoli, vegetable lo mein. Gonna go out on a limb here and say I win."

All of her favorites. "Yeah, I'll give you this one." She feels the guilt from earlier start to re-emerge as she pulls off her boots, though, and she decides to broach the topic in the spirit of honesty. "Hey, um… you know that was just a general 'getting out early, don't worry about me getting caught in a blizzard' text, right? Not 'I expect you to drive up here in crappy weather and entertain me'?"

She looks up at him just in time to see his smile fade imperceptibly. He recovers quickly, though. "Did you want me to go?" he asks with exaggerated innocence. "Because… you know, I will, but I'm taking the food with me."

"That's not what I meant."

"Nah, no big deal," he says, pretending to reach for his jacket. "I've slept in the truck before. Can't be any worse for my neck than that futon, right?"

He's back to smiling wholeheartedly, and she's about 99 percent sure he isn't serious, but something about how he's currently making it seem so easy to walk out again is grating on her a little.

"Like hell you are, Sam," she manages.

"What, leaving or taking the –"

"Both. Either. Whatever the right word is there," Andy retorts. "All I meant was that you don't have to come up here if you don't want to – but obviously you wouldn't be here if you _didn't _want to, so you think we can get through the rest of the night without you threatening to leave?"

His face really falls this time, and she half expects him to snap back – _Christ, Andy, it was a joke_ – but he's quiet, looking at her steadily. (They both know exactly why this is a sore spot, but even she's surprised at how sensitive she is about it.)

When he finally speaks, he's using the calming tone that Andy swears could talk somebody down off a ledge. "I was kidding. You know I was kidding, right?"

She nods.

"I didn't realize that it would bother you so much, or I wouldn't have said it," he continues. "I'm sorry."

She swallows hard. "It's fine. I'm just… well, _I _didn't realize how much it would bother me. I think I'm more bothered that I'm bothered than anything else. Does that even make a little bit of sense?"

"Yes. It does."

"Okay, good." She smiles tentatively. "And I think I just used the word 'bother' a record number of times, so… maybe there's some award for that."

"We can invent one if you want," he muses, his eyes doing that cute thing where they crinkle up at the corners. "You want to eat before everything gets cold?"

"Yeah, I'm starving," she agrees. "Put the lo mein in the fridge when you're done with it, though."

"Right, right," he recalls. "You do love your cold Asian noodles."

"I love _you_," she can't help saying. He kisses the side of her head as he passes.

(Random kisses, grabbing her hand while they walk or across restaurant tables – there's been a lot more of that stuff, too. She's not complaining.)

It turns out that the takeout isn't the only thing he's brought with him. After they eat, he pulls a stack of DVDs out of his duffel, flipping them over one at a time. "Let me see. We've got action, comedy, a couple classics, a TV show… okay, Oliver must've thrown that one in… take your pick."

She screws her face up in thought. "I don't suppose you also have something to play these on in your bag of tricks there, do you?"

"Why? There's a DVD player built into the TV," he says, pointing to the far wall.

"Where?" she asks incredulously. _That would've been nice to know a couple of weeks ago_.

He gets up from the futon and gingerly climbs onto the crappy lecture-hall chair. "Right here," he tells her, running a finger along the side of the screen. "You didn't wonder what that whole set of buttons at the bottom of the remote was for?"

She shrugs. "Figured it was a universal remote. Sam, please be careful on that thing, I don't want this night to end in the emergency room."

"I'm good, McNally. Pick a movie."

She grabs the first one she can reach and hands it up to him without looking. As he slides the disc into the drive, he emits an excessively beleaguered sigh. "Ollie will be pleased to know you're taking his suggestions."

"Why, what…" She glances at the case as he makes his way back to the ground. "Oh, come on, what's wrong with 'The Wedding Singer'? Does anyone actually not like this movie?"

"I'd go as far as to call it 'tolerable'," he allows as she settles down on the bed, the only spot in the room from which the TV can be comfortably seen. (He pauses for a moment, until she gives him her most compelling _don't be stupid _look and he joins her.) The long week starts to weigh down on her as soon as she reclines, and she drifts off sometime around the cake-tasting scene. She mutters to Sam that he can turn it off if he wants; fades in and out of sleep often enough to know that he keeps watching until it's over.

It's close to midnight when she finds herself upright and struggling to breathe. She can't focus on anything beyond a flash of light and the terrifying sensation of flying backward until she hears Sam ask if she's all right.

She tenses, then relaxes infinitesimally as she looks over at him. He's still sitting beside her, down to his T-shirt and boxers, a course manual resting open in his lap. "Um… yeah. Yeah." She leans forward, rests her head against her bent knees; that usually helps her breathing return to normal. "Stupid. It just needs to stop happening."

She feels a hand on her back, hears him exhale. "When did it start?"

"When I got here. Not every night or anything, but when it does happen, it usually means I'll have a couple of them, if I can get back to sleep at all."

"They bad?" he asks gently.

She shrugs. "You know. Grenade, big boom, watching people get blasted to bits. Sometimes me, sometimes Katie – it's been a rotating cast."

"Who was it this time?"

She straightens up, avoiding his eyes. "You."

He doesn't say any of the stupid, supposedly comforting stuff that she already knows – _it was just a dream_ or _everything's okay now_ or _see, look, I'm not in pieces_ – just rubs her back silently, wrapping his arms around her when she leans into him.

They fall asleep like that, tangled together on top of the covers. She doesn't wake again until morning.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thank you so much for the fantastic feedback on the last chapter! I'm definitely not doing as well with responding to reviews as I normally do, but I wanted to get this chapter out before my work week gets super busy, so please know that I appreciate each and every one, and it's a great motivation to keep writing.

Good job, dcj, on picking up the Gilmore Girls reference! (Luke and Lorelai are one of the only TV couples I've loved as much as I do Sam and Andy.) Also, thanks to Falesification223 for some great points and helping me clarify some ideas in the last chapter. This one is a lot of setup, but it's pretty necessary for what's to come; I'd love to know what you think.

Disclaimer: See chapter 1. In addition, everything I know about organized crime comes from watching The Sopranos on and off several years ago, so please forgive any inaccuracies on that front.

* * *

Sam has classes most of the following Saturday – it's an intensive all-day thing before getting into the more typical thrice-weekly sessions, he explains – so she's on her own the following weekend. It's not so bad, now that she's a little more familiar with the area. (That, and Sam left the DVDs.) As she's debating what to do for dinner on Sunday evening, Luke calls and tells her to get to headquarters as soon as possible; there's been an unanticipated break.

The place is electric with barely organized mayhem by the time she arrives fifteen minutes later. Luke is standing at the front of the main meeting room, scribbling notes on the huge white board and barking instructions at what seems like everybody at once. When he spots her, he motions impatiently, as if he's been waiting on her for days. "You're going back under. I have to brief you and you're gone in an hour."

"What are you talking about?" she replies, shocked, as she hurries toward him. "What happened to 'we can't put you back under, you might be recognized'?"

He shrugs distractedly. "Yeah, well, we're this close to busting the Armstrongs, and we need a certain type to get in there for a day or two. Three max. Then we take them down – and if they go, we'll get the Yusupovs, the Gills, the Huangs. Like dominos."

Her head is reeling. "What happened?"

Luke starts pointing to various images on the board so quickly that his hand practically blurs as it moves. "Our guy, Brian Kenner, a.k.a. Dustin Long – he's been in with the Armstrongs since last fall. They're sitting on a counterfeit empire. Running sweatshops, the whole thing. _You_ are his new girlfriend, Julie Burns, the one he's been talking about at work for the last few weeks. The one with expensive taste he can't afford. We get you in there, get you on the wire talking about how the fake stuff looks just as good as the real, and we'll have an airtight case."

"But the other families… how does this affect them?" _You're gone in an hour_ hasn't stopped ricocheting across her brain.

"Precedent. All right, you need to go with, um… Lisa!" he yells across the room suddenly. "We're ready to go." He focuses on Andy. "She's going to help make you look like you just came from a spa retreat or something. Look, you'll be fine, I know you can do this." Just as quickly, someone else is requesting his attention on another matter, and she knows that's all she's getting.

Lisa hustles her into another room and scrutinizes Andy for a moment before pulling some clothes off a rack. "This should work. We'll get your hair done and all that in a minute."

"Aren't they going to check me for a wire?" Andy stammers. This is all moving way too fast for comfort – again.

"Doubtful, but even if they look, yours is built into the lining of that jacket. It's still cold, so it makes sense that you'll wear it every day. The sound quality's not the best, so you're going to have to speak up, but that's the trade-off for getting something small enough to hide. And we bugged the hotel room you and Brian – sorry, _Dustin_ are staying in." Lisa holds up a pair of impossibly high stilettos. "Think you can walk in these?"

Andy gapes. "Um, sure, I guess."

"Good. I'll be back in ten minutes. It's been there since lunch, but there's pizza on that table if you're hungry." She turns to leave, reaching for Andy's bag. "We'll get your stuff back to your division, they'll hold onto it there."

"Wait!" Andy interjects, reaching for the bag. "I have to make a phone call."

Lisa sighs. "Fine. Like I said, I'm back in ten. Make your call, eat if you want, and be dressed by then."

As soon as she's alone, Andy fumbles for her phone, pulling up Sam's number on speed-dial. She tries to keep the phone pressed to her ear as she pulls her shirt up over her head, reaching for the expensive-looking ruffled blouse Lisa dropped on the table, but she gets stuck, the phone tangled somewhere in the fabric of her pullover. "Shit!"

"Uh… Andy?" She hears a muffled Sam from somewhere within the shirt, sounding amused. She yanks on the cotton, her phone clattering to the ground. She picks it up quickly.

"Sam."

"Everything okay over there?"

She can hear the smile in his voice, and God, she really doesn't want to tell him this. "Look, I have no time and I have to go back under for a couple days. Luke said no more than three. Different role, different organization – shouldn't be that bad. Final nail in the coffin kind of thing."

He's silent for an incredibly long minute as she frantically trades her jeans for the snug designer pencil skirt Lisa selected. "You all right with this?"

She speaks rapidly, as if to make up for his having wasted valuable time by thinking. "I don't really have a choice. I mean, this is what I signed up for, right, and I have to do it. I just, I wish I had more of a chance to process this, and I have to play the girlfriend of this guy who's in there now and I've never even met him, and I just wish I…"

"Andy." She knows he's trying to keep her calm, but she suspects he's also storing up a few choice words for Luke for springing this on her so quickly. "You're gonna be fine. Just… don't think about anything else. Nothing else exists when you're under, you know how this goes."

She nods tightly, knowing she doesn't have the time or words to tell him that as Maureen, she thought about him every day. (Doubts Julie will be much different.) "I know. I know."

"It won't be long."

"I know. I have to wear ridiculous shoes."

"Worse than the hooker boots? Come on." He laughs, but it's clearly an effort. "Look, get in there, get it done. You've got this, all right? You do."

"Okay," she says, pulling out her ponytail and shoving the elastic into her bag, along with her clothes. "So I guess we'll talk, um…"

"I'll be here when it's done," he says, the down-off-a-ledge voice making a reappearance. "Be careful."

She starts to tell him that she will – has a lot more to say, actually – when Lisa rushes back into the room and immediately stretches her hand out, presumably for the phone. "Okay, gotta go," Andy replies before ending the call and turning over her stuff.

Forty-five minutes later, she's perfectly coiffed and pulling up to one of the fanciest hotels in the city. She ascends in one of the lobby's glass-walled elevators and knocks on the door of room 1256, where Brian Kenner answers. They don't have much time to get to know one another, but they can't afford to portray themselves as anything other than hot and heavy. "Maybe if I play up the gold-digging ice queen angle, they won't notice that we just met," Andy says sarcastically.

Brian shrugs. "Actually, it's a thought."

So when they walk out the door, transformed into Dustin and Julie, she embraces the concept. She simpers, turns up her nose, sits with perfect posture in the VIP section of the club owned by the Armstrongs while Dustin surreptitiously slips fake Rolex watches to knowing patrons for wads of cash. When he takes her on a tour of the main shop the following morning, she says all the right things, and gets a few of the underlings to talk about the products' origin on the wire. She's a little surprised at the absence of nerves the day after, when they meet Lachlan Armstrong, the big boss of the operation. She offers the kind of backhanded praise she thinks would be expected of someone like Julie, and apparently it works; Lachlan slaps Brian on the back, congratulates him on finding a bold young woman with excellent taste. Invites them to the club again that night.

Brian's handler lets them know well beforehand the bust is going to happen once the evening is in full swing, and mentions that the task force will be assisted by uniformed officers from the nearest division for the takedown. Andy does some quick cartography in her head as she drags a curling iron through her hair, and nearly burns herself when she realizes that – of course – the club is in 15's jurisdiction. _This is about to get interesting_, she thinks wryly.

Once they arrive at the club, she makes sure that she's sitting as close to the corner as possible and frequently lets her eyes dart to the door, so that when the first flash of blue brushes past the bouncer, she's on her feet and up against the wall, out of the way of the imminent pandemonium. She and Brian pretend to be bewildered by the sudden swarm of cops (even though she knows most of them incredibly well; it's Gail who initially yells out, "Police! Nobody move!"), and it doesn't take long before the crowd is contained and they've started making arrests. She's not surprised when her colleagues start to make their way up toward the VIP section – although Lachlan slipped down to the office when the takedown began, his son and nephews are still here – but she's not expecting to get taken in herself, despite Brian telling her it was a distinct possibility in order to keep up appearances. She's _really_ not expecting to see Sam bolting up the stairs with the others, vest over a grey thermal shirt and badge clipped to his belt, and when he loudly informs her that she's under arrest and motions for her to turn around… well. Can't say she saw that one coming.

He leans in as he cuffs her. "You all right?" he mutters.

"Fine," she hisses back. "Seriously had to be you?"

"Luck of the draw," he whispers before straightening up and raising his voice. "Ma'am, let's go."

"I haven't done anything wrong," she protests at the top of her lungs, shooting a _can you believe this?_ look at the nearest Armstrong, who's in a similar position.

Oliver's busy searching a patron for merchandise when they pass him, but Andy doesn't miss his barely contained laughter at the sight of a uniformed Sam leading her undercover self out by her arm, hands restrained behind her back.

* * *

She's never been on this side of a holding cell. They leave her here for a reasonable amount of time before they take her for 'questioning', which really means 'thank you, Officer McNally, you're done for the day.'

Traci's the one who comes to pull her out; walks her into the D's office before hugging her.

"You were _awesome_. Luke said you got them to say everything they needed and then some."

She grins. "I'm still all hopped up from it, it's crazy. You know who arrested me, right?"

Traci laughs. "Honey, the entire division knows. You still, uh…"

"Taking it slow. Yes," Andy confirms. "I guess if tonight sets a precedent for the other organizations and they're going down next, Project Dakota's basically done… so we'll see what happens now."

Truth be told, she has no idea how they're going to progress down a new path in the context of their old reality – but it's going to have to wait until after her debrief, because Luke is walking in.

Over the next couple of hours, her adrenaline fades, leaving her at odds with crushing fatigue. She kicks off Julie's high heels under the desk, yawns through the last several statements until Luke finally tells her they're done. "Nice work, Officer. I'll be in touch with future opportunities," he says with a professional smile and an outstretched hand.

Her bag has been living in Traci's locker since Lisa dropped it off at the precinct. She's not thrilled with the wrinkled, dirty jeans and shirt that she finds within it, but she fortunately keeps clean street clothes in her own locker at all times, and happily changes into them after a quick shower. (Beyond anything, she's thrilled to be back in footwear that doesn't make her wobble.) She pulls her damp hair into a bun and swings her coat over her shoulders as she exits the locker room, finding Sam leaning against the wall outside.

(It's a familiar scene, but she has no idea where it goes from here.)

A smirk pushes its way through her exhaustion. "Luck of the draw, huh?" she says.

He takes a step toward her, a grin beginning to spread across his face. "At least I didn't tackle you."

"Or try to kiss me," she supplies.

His grin is full-fledged now as he places a hand on her waist. "Yet."

It's probably a bad idea – the last thing they need is the déjà vu of starting this thing on the basis of a bad idea, she damn well realizes – but the hallway is empty and she's pretty much too tired to care. As he begins to lower his head toward hers, though, a voice startles them into jumping apart. "Great job, Andy!"

She turns her head sharply as Sam drops his arm to his side. "Diana!" Her task-force acquaintance is approaching, in full uniform and smiling widely. "Were you there tonight?"

"Yeah, a lot of us were. Can you believe what a madhouse it turned into? My team was monitoring the wires the whole time you were under, you rocked it." She looks over at Sam then. "Hey, Diana Lasker. Andy and I were working Dakota headquarters together."

Andy says, "Diana, this is my… this is Officer Swarek. He's actually done plenty of undercover himself, and he's just about finished with detective coursework."

As they shake hands, she notices that Sam's smile is no longer unabashed, but cool and polite. "Sam. Nice to meet you." He turns to Andy. "Officer McNally, nice work. I'm heading out, so if you'd still like a ride…?"

She nods. "Yeah, thanks." As he starts down the hall, she rambles something to Diana about how nice people at 15 are, offering to drive her home when it's cold or the weather sucks. It doesn't escape her, the way he halts in his tracks for just a second when she says that before he continues toward the door.

She and Diana assure one another that they'll keep in touch, and she walks quickly toward the exit. Sam's already in the truck when she gets outside. He continues looking at the windshield as she climbs in.

"So I guess we can go to my place, if that works?" she ventures.

He nods wordlessly and turns the key in the ignition. Andy suddenly finds that her lethargy from just moments before has disappeared; she's suddenly on edge, ready to leap out of her skin. Whatever's brewing in his mind is clearly not good. The subsequent conversation it's inevitably going to lead to? Probably worse.

When she sighs, she does her best to keep it silent. _This is gonna be a long night._


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thanks for the continued interest in the story! As we've noticed, Sam is not the most emotionally advanced person on earth (neither of them are, but Andy's POV leads us to see his behavior a little more clearly), which is what I was trying to lead into at the end of the last chapter. Hopefully, this one sort of clarifies where I think they might be coming from. Also, when Andy brought up trying to contact Sam for six weeks in 3x13, it seemed to come out of nowhere based on what we saw in the two previous episodes, where any ignoring appeared to be mutual, so I wanted to touch on that a little bit as well. This chapter ended up being a lot harder to write than I expected, and I'm hoping it's not too OOC or over-the-top (or, conversely, not enough); feedback is welcomed. Actually, it's encouraged! :)

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

* * *

Sam doesn't say a word the whole way back to her condo, but he parks the truck out front and follows her upstairs without protest when she motions to him. She unlocks the door and is pleased to find the place clean and orderly; her dad's been excelling at upkeep while she's been gone. She inwardly groans at the thought of having to head back up to the Crap Shack to pick up the rest of her stuff, but Luke at least told her toward the end of her debrief that she could do it anytime in the next week or so. Regardless, she has no intention of worrying about it tonight; it seems more than likely that other things are going to take priority.

(Funny how an hour ago, she was hoping that 'other things' would consist of a quick meal and a whole lot of time staring at the inside of her eyelids. Instead, she's more tense and vigilant than she can remember being at any point in the recent past, undercover stints included. It's as if her body is preparing itself for something she can't identify well enough to anticipate.)

She drops her bag in the foyer and makes her way into the kitchen, where she discovers little in the way of perishables – her dad couldn't have been certain when she'd be back permanently – but a decently stocked freezer and pantry. (She resists the urge to immediately chuck the Pop-Tarts; if she never again sees another one, it'll be too soon.) She selects a frozen pizza and places it on the counter before looking up to see Sam standing in the kitchen doorway.

She holds up the pizza. "That okay?"

He walks over to the oven. "Not really hungry," he says impassively. "I'll preheat this for you, though."

"Um… thanks?" Since they started doing this revamp or whatever it is, she hasn't seen this side of him, the one where he gets kind of sullen and passive-aggressive and attempts to play off disappointment as nothing worth considering, instead of talking about it. If past experience is any indication, biting sarcasm is up next. (She hasn't missed this facet of him much. Actually, at all.)

He shrugs. "Well, you know. Friendly neighborhood Officer Swarek is all about helping out."

(And there it is.)

She leans against the center island. "What was I supposed to say, Sam?" she asks. "'This is my ex who I'm kind of starting to see again, even though we still haven't talked about anything that happened the first time around'?"

"I'm sure there's a happy medium," he mutters. "But you know what? Fine. You want to talk about it, then let's talk about it. I told you I'd wait for you, and I did. I told you I'd show you how I feel about you until you say yes, and… I don't know, you seemed to be pretty on-board with everything up until now, so here I thought we were doing okay. Were you planning to let me know anytime soon that we're apparently not? Because I like to think I know you pretty well, Andy, but I'm not a mind-reader."

"That's not what I mean," she says. "What we've been doing has been... great, okay? But we're never going to get past it if we just ignore everything. We _know_ how we feel about each other. That's not the problem."

"Okay." He sighs. "After Jerry died, I was… well, you said it. Not myself. I made a lot of bad decisions. Like ending things with you instead of asking for space."

"Why didn't you?" she interjects. "Just ask, I mean. I would've given you space, Sam."

"I guess I didn't know I had to spell it out for you," he says. "I asked Frank to let me ride alone that day, I tried to give myself distance, and –"

Well, that one's new. "You _asked_ to ride alone? I had no… How was I supposed to know that? Not like I can read your mind either."

She remembers all too well his wishing aloud that she could, her hand around a bomb and her stomach in knots. She can't deny that telepathy would make things simpler.

"So I screwed up," he continues as if she hasn't said anything, "and I've been doing everything I can to make sure it's different this time, all right? Taking it slow and all that."

She's quiet for a minute, the countertop cool against her arm. "Taking it slow," she repeats. "That's why you… whenever I try to…"

He tilts his head in affirmation.

She squeezes her eyes shut, his gentle but conspicuous resistance to her not-so-subtle advances those last couple of nights suddenly making a lot more sense. "We can't even take things slow the same way," she can't help remarking.

"Meaning?"

She snorts. "For you, it's physical. For me, it's the fact that I'm trying to trust you again after you left me crying in the fucking _rain_."

"I'm bending over backwards to show you that you can!" he exclaims. "Look, I'm sorry, all right. You _know_ I'm sorry. And I can apologize until I'm blue in the face, but what's done is done. We can move forward or… not."

"Is it seriously that easy for you?" she fires back. "You dump me, ignore me for weeks, and finally decide to tell me you love me when I could literally explode at any second? And I'm just supposed to say, 'Well, what's done is done, let's move on' and skip merrily off into the sunset?"

"Okay, let's get something straight," he responds, a new edge beginning to creep into his voice. "You say I ignored you, but you're claiming you tried to contact me for six weeks solid? Not counting work-related stuff and a couple of 'hey, thought you'd like this link' emails, you called me _three_ times. The first one was a missed call in the middle of the night, no message, and I didn't pick up because I was sleeping. Second time was a voicemail asking if I had a shirt of yours at my place; I told you the next day I didn't. Would've called you back about it, but it seemed to make more sense to wait seven hours and tell you in person. Third call, you left a message about how you'd meant to call someone else, and I'm pretty sure you'd been drinking. I miss anything?"

She rolls her eyes. "All right, fine. But really, what was I supposed to do, chase after you after you said you couldn't be with me? How pathetic did you want me to be here?"

"That's not…"

"And another thing," she interrupts. "You think that things are somehow going to be different if we just don't have sex for a while?"

He looks up at the ceiling as if it holds the answers he seeks. "Sex has never been an issue for us. It makes sense not to complicate things while we're trying to work everything else out."

"Yeah, except you actually have to try and work it out, Sam, not just put off sleeping together and expect everything else will magically fall into place," she snaps. "Or are you just afraid that if we do, we'll drop right back to where we were? Not talking and keeping secrets and…"

"Hindsight sure brings all the flaws to the surface, doesn't it," he says tightly. "Things were good, when…"

"When what?" she retorts. "When you did the background check on my mom behind my back? When you pulled your little fuck-and-run routine every morning?"

The severe look she knows she's giving him threatens to wither and die as she watches that particular blow land. It's like his entire being darkens in front of her at once.

"Excuse me?" he says, too calmly.

She sets her jaw. "You heard me. Is that what's going to happen if we keep moving forward? You gonna leave before I'm even breathing normally again? Because I have to say, you might not be thrilled with how I introduced you to a colleague _while at work_, but nothing makes a woman feel cheap like her boyfriend – and you _were_ at that point, let's not forget – running out the door half-dressed before I can even suggest breakfast."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Andy…" He stops suddenly, pressing clenched fists down into the counter. When he finally speaks again, it's pretty clear to her that he's fighting to keep from flipping his lid completely.

"This isn't working." His voice emerges quietly, but it's controlled; dangerous.

"Wonderful," she says sarcastically. "So much for not giving up without a fight."

"No, that's…" He reaches up, presses his hands down on the top of his head. "I meant _this_ isn't working. We're going in circles here. I'm going to take a walk around the block, get my head on a little better, and we're going to try this again."

"Sam, it's after four in the morning." The bust at the club didn't even start until close to midnight, and Luke is a big proponent of a thorough debrief.

"Yeah, I know, but if we're doing this, it might as well actually be productive."

She knows he's right; they both need to cool off. Part of her sort of wonders if he'll just decide to take off once he's downstairs, but she doubts it'll do either of them any good at this point to ask.

"I'm not going far, if that's what you're thinking," he says flatly. "I'll be back in ten minutes, and I'll have my phone if something comes up. If you need more collateral than that…" He digs in his pockets, pulls out his wallet and keys. They hit the counter with a respective thump and jangle. "Okay if I grab the spare, so I can let myself back in?"

She nods. Once the door closes behind him, she notices that the volume of keys seems to have doubled from what she recalls him carrying. Upon closer inspection, she realizes that it's because there are indeed twice as many: his usual set, as well as the spares that she temporarily possessed. (She recognizes the dealership keychain; it's one of those little metal discs that spins around inside a circle. She used to play with it a lot.) She's not sure why he's got them with him, but something about it causes a modicum of the pressure on her shoulders to lift.

She turns off the now well-preheated oven; the pizza has thawed completely on the counter, and she tosses out the soggy cardboard box, crinkling her nose in faint distaste. She heads into the living room, kicks off her shoes before she sinks down onto the couch. If they're going to continue, she doesn't think it's so wrong to be comfortable.

A few minutes later, she hears the front door open and close. "In here," she calls. He walks in and takes a seat beside her.

"You keep talking about how _I_ left," he begins without preamble. "Or how you think I'm going to leave again. But we started the whole thing with you being gone for three months. Right after I asked you to try being normal together… after Brennan. Maybe I needed you, I don't really know anymore, but it was different when you came back. I still felt everything for you that I had for, you know, a long time… but things weren't the same. Were they? It was like there was a wall there. I don't know, it's been a long day and I might be talking out of my ass, I just…"

"No, I get it," she assures him. Looking at his face now, she can see the lacerations from his battle with Brennan as if they're still there. She wasn't lying when she told him she missed him every day while in North Bay, but the impact of his words – the realization of what he had to cope with on his own – it's never quite hit her like this. "I just wish you'd told me it wasn't okay. That _you_ weren't. Maybe… I don't know, we could've taken our time and things wouldn't have turned out like this."

"Yeah," he sighs. "Maybe. Except I'm not so good at talking about this stuff. That's kind of the problem, isn't it?"

She shrugs. "Neither am I. When my mom came back, it was a lot, and it was easier to just push past it than try to put it into words. So I didn't." She meets his eyes. "I didn't try."

"You tried," he says. "You just… well, things have a way of coming out differently than we want them to sometimes."

"I shouldn't have been working that day," she bursts out suddenly. "The day Jerry… After what happened here, I was scared out of my mind. And I was worried about Gail, and I felt like it was all my fault that I didn't do more. And I didn't want to tell you how much the whole thing rattled me because I couldn't think of anything to do except work, and maybe if I hadn't been, if I'd talked to you first, then…"

"Andy," he says evenly, stretching his arm across the middle cushion but stopping just short of touching her. "I never thought that what happened was your fault, okay? Never. I _know_ you know that. It took a while to stop blaming myself, honestly, but I did. Had to become a little bit of a tornado first, but that happens, you know? I do that sometimes, just lose my shit. And I'm working on it, but… I'm never going to be perfect."

"I don't expect you to be perfect," she responds softly. "God knows I'm not. I just want you to be _here_."

He reaches for her hand then, closing his fingers around hers. "I'm here."

They're silent for a long moment before she speaks again. "When I first took the task force, were you mad?"

"Not counting the night you and Collins didn't show up at the Penny and Liam almost ran out of tequila?" He closes his eyes. "I wasn't a ray of sunshine the first week or so, if that's what you're asking, but once we found out where you were… I don't know, I tried to be, but I'm not really one to talk. Running to undercover when real life got to be too much, that was always my thing. Can't really fault you for it."

She bites her lip, then ventures, "I probably would've gone. To the Penny, if I hadn't taken it. Or at least called, if I'd had more than five minutes and didn't spend four and a half of them in shock, but I…"

"Look," he says. "You did what you had to do. I'm not keeping track of this stuff, who left who and all that. It's out there now; let's just… acknowledge it happened and keep moving."

"All right." She nods.

"For the record, though?" He squeezes her hand. "If you _had_ called, I'd have told you to go."

She feels a smile ghost across her face. "Really."

"Mm-hmm." He rubs his thumb along the side of her index finger. "I've been telling you for years that you're awesome, it's no surprise that you kicked ass with this. Plus, you and Collins are basically the conquering heroes of 15 right now. Day after tomorrow, there's a distinct possibility that confetti will make an appearance during parade." He grins.

Andy looks up and notices the faint morning light beginning to make its way in through the windows. "I think it's safe to go ahead and just call that 'tomorrow,'" she points out. "Um… where do we go from here, Sam?"

(She's not trying to cut this short, really; she's just been up for close to 24 hours now, and her brain is rapidly approaching pea-soup status.)

He shrugs a little. "Well, I was kind of enjoying what we were doing, these last few weeks. You?"

"What, dating?"

"If that's what you want to call it, sure."

"It's been pretty fun," she concedes.

"Just _pretty_ fun?" he teases, his grin making a reappearance. "You are really not in the business of making this easy for me, are you?"

"Well, you know. A girl's got to have standards."

"Okay, one-woman tough crowd, how about this? We keep doing what we were doing, just… with more talking. It's like kids eating vegetables. We don't have to like it, it just needs to happen."

She nods again, somewhat optimistic that it'll start to get a little easier the more they do it. "Deal."

"There's a lot of… there are things I want you to know. But for right now, I'd like to take you out for breakfast," he says. "And then, if it works for you, I'd like to come back over here tonight after my class and cook you dinner."

She pretends to think about it for a moment, then smiles. "I think that might be all right. I believe I was promised something about dinner being cooked at one point."

He raises an eyebrow. "Well, I would've done it sooner, but the culinary magic I can work with a microwave and plastic cutlery is somewhat limited." He stands up, pulling her with him. "Ready to go?"

She slips her shoes back on, and he stops in the kitchen for his things on their way to the foyer. Andy notices that he only takes one set of keys. "Um…" She doesn't want to assume anything either way, so she points back at the counter. "You, uh, forgot something."

He looks at her steadily. "No, I didn't."

She reaches for his hand as they walk out the door.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews/favorites/alerts following the last chapter! This one would have been up sooner, but life has a tendency to get in the way, and it took me a while to get it written the way I wanted; hopefully it's not as disjointed as I suspect. Probably one or two chapters to come after this, just so I can selfishly keep having some fun with them. Let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: I still own nothing.

* * *

Andy expects it to be something of a letdown, getting back into uniform after the last few months. But it's not, really; the shirt feels good on her arms, the weight of the vest comfortable on her shoulders. The locker room chatter, indistinct beyond grumbles about the early hour, is a familiar cadence. Like coming home.

When she walks into the assembly room for parade, Nick following close behind, they're greeted with boisterous applause from their colleagues. She grins, embarrassed, tries to wave it off; Nick actually hams it up, waving clasped hands on either side of his head in an exaggerated gesture of triumph, but the dark circles beneath his eyes are unmistakable. (It must be hard for anyone to be completely alone for that long, especially a guy like him – accustomed to traveling in a pack, or at the very least with a partner. And based on how Gail's refusing to look at him right now, Andy doubts his return has been all that enjoyable thus far.)

She catches Sam's eye from across the room; he raises his eyebrows and cocks his head as if to say, _Told you so_. She makes a mental note to ask him later why, if he knows everything, they skimped on the confetti.

* * *

They talked after dinner last night, Andy tentatively bringing up her concerns about maintaining separation between her personal and professional lives. Sam noted that his training with the D's would likely limit their time working together and remove some of the guesswork about how to proceed. "Even so," he remarked as he lined up plates in the dishwasher, "I'm pretty sure we can handle keeping things under wraps at work until we have a better idea of what's going on here."

She smiled, tipping the front legs of her chair upward and rocking back. "That's reasonable. Although I'm pretty sure I know what's going on here already."

He shut the dishwasher door and looked up. "Oh, yeah?"

She nodded. "In the three-plus years that I've known you, you've been sitting on a ridiculously good lasagna recipe. Care to explain why you were holding out on me?"

He laughed, an easy grin crossing his face. "At least you stayed awake long enough to enjoy it."

"That's… all right, I'll give you that one," she muttered. (She'd been so tired during breakfast that it was a miracle she avoided face-planting in her hashbrowns. More miraculous still: that it took Sam a full sixteen hours to make fun of her for it.) "There's just one little hiccup with that plan, though."

"Hmm?"

"I maybe might have alluded to Traci that there's sort of a thing happening," she admitted, turning up her hands in a _what can I do_ gesticulation.

He walked over to the table, taking a seat beside her. "That in no way surprises me," he said. "And if it helps, I'm pretty sure Oliver has a clue."

"Really? How?"

Sam stretched his arms up above his head. "Gave him a ride when his car was in the shop last week. My truck is clean."

Andy was mystified; he'd always been utterly scrupulous in terms of vehicle care. "As opposed to what?"

"Let's just say it wasn't a priority for awhile." He shrugged. "All right. So with the exception of those two…"

She nodded. "I think that'll work."

"Yeah?" he asked, his grin resurging. "You ready to bring the professional, McNally?"

"Oh, you haven't seen professional until you've seen how I do it," she declared.

"Uh-_huh_," he said, nodding thoughtfully. "Been working on your skills since the john sweep, then?"

She swatted his arm. "Shut up."

* * *

She expects to spend the first day back on front desk or booking – something to ease her into things, but instead, she's riding with Dov. Being away for three months has renewed her vigor for the job; she's astonished at how thrilled she is to be driving a cruiser again, the fact that it's a relatively uneventful day notwithstanding. It's great spending time with Dov, too. He seems happier than he was before she left, more settled and far less weighed down. They crack jokes the whole shift, and she indulges his myriad questions about undercover. The next few days are similarly relaxed, minus a few B&E's and one fairly brief and anticlimactic car chase. ("Sir, did you really think trying to lose us would get you out of a speeding ticket?" Dov asks as she pushes the driver against the squad car and cuffs him.) She's invigorated at the end of each shift, in a way she can't ever remember being before.

"It's crazy," she remarks to Sam as they're finishing dinner later that week. They're at his place; early spring has been kind to them the last couple of days, so he's declared grilling season open. "I had no idea how much I missed it until I was back."

"So you don't see much extended deep cover in your future?"

"God, no," she says. "Short term ops are fine – you get a rush, it's interesting, but then you can go back to your life. Any more than a couple of days…"

"It can be hard not to lose yourself," he supplies.

She leans forward in her chair. "I actually had kind of the opposite problem," she admits. "I _couldn't_ get totally immersed, no matter how much I tried. Probably good that my first assignment was kind of a wash, right?"

He nods, taking another sip of wine.

"Hey, um…" She's not sure how he's going to react, but _he_ brought it up, and if they're going to do this talking thing, maybe he's offering her a window of sorts. "Did you ever? Lose yourself, I mean."

He looks up with a contemplative expression. "Came close once."

She meets his eyes. "Yeah?"

"It was my first op." He sighs. "I was three months in, totally invested in making myself believable, and uh... one night I was so preoccupied with staying in character that I forgot how to fake."

"How to what?"

"There's these tricks they teach you before you go under with the drug squad. How to make it look like you're snorting or shooting up. That night, they brought out cocaine in the back room, and I don't know if it was sleep deprivation or what, I just… blanked. Did the line."

She feels her eyes widen. "Did you have to report it back? How does that work? I mean, you can't be the first undercover cop to have done that."

"I told my handler. They're supposed to pull you if there's potential for a problem," he says. "We were so close to the bust, though, and he figured it was a one-time slip-up. Told me, 'Things happen.'" He leans back against his chair. "It's been eight years, you know, and I still remember exactly what it felt like."

"You mean, when you…?"

He nods. "It's like your brain is electrified. Colors are brighter; every thought that's flying through your head is the most brilliant idea anyone's ever come up with. And then it's all gone, and you're just left there. Empty. It's why people get addicted; they'll do anything to get that feeling back." He pauses then, drums his fingers on the tabletop for a second before continuing. "The part I didn't report was that I wanted to reach for the mirror again… I almost did. And that scared the crap out of me. You're living this life, you're by yourself – it would be so easy to fall into that. You think being a cop means you're above it, but you're not. No one is."

"Must've been scary," she sympathizes.

He hesitates. "It's not just, uh… Do you remember what I told you about JD's father?"

_Maplehurst Penitentiary, pistachio ice cream_. She nods.

"And you know how when you're undercover, you stick as close to the truth as possible?"

She sucks in a breath. "How old were you when he went in?"

"Four, the first time," he responds. "Not that he was around much before then. Started with possession, then intent to sell, and ended up with all-out trafficking. He spent a lot more time in than out, finally OD'ed when I was eleven or twelve. Took seven months before we even found out."

"Sam, that's…" she starts softly.

He waves her off. "Honestly doesn't bother me that much. He'd have had to be part of my life in the first place in order for me to notice his absence, if that makes sense. It was more the idea of growing up with this cautionary tale hanging over my head, and still making the same mistake. Being in a position where I could understand how he did what he did, it just…" He stops speaking abruptly, eyes drifting downward.

She's silent for a long moment. "Have you told a lot of people this?"

He shakes his head. "You're, uh, pretty much the first."

She's always known how much he demands of himself, the mind-boggling volume of responsibility he stubbornly assumes day after day, but this is different. Like he's confessing what he believes to be a personal failure, an irrevocable flaw.

"The difference is that you knew it was a mistake right away." She reaches for his hand across the table. "And I think the majority of mistakes can't be counted against you if you learn from them."

He squeezes her hand before releasing it, then nods.

"Thank you for telling me," she ventures quietly.

He shrugs. "I told you there are things I want you to know. The whole… sharing thing is just a little new."

She wants to tell him that she'd never judge him for anything like that, never try to make him uncomfortable or press for more information than he's willing to give, but it seems unnecessary.

"Speaking of new," he says with a start, effectively closing the subject for the time being, "there's a lot you can do with this kind of experience under your belt, if you want to. I mean, I know you were worried about feeling stuck working the streets for the rest of your career, but you clearly don't have to. If _I _can move on while staying here…"

"I know," she agrees. "I never really thought about it before, and… I guess I might not be done with the beat just yet anyway. Look at Chris, right? He's a T.O. Something like that wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility for me, would it?"

"Nope. Not if that's what you want to do." He briskly taps the table with both hands before standing up, stacking silverware onto his empty plate and coming around for hers. "And, you know. Sometimes it takes giving something up for you to figure out you had everything you wanted in the first place."

She tilts her head back, shares a quick smile with him as he passes.

_Yeah… just like coming home_.

* * *

Still, they're both only human, meaning it's not so easy to thrive without mundane things like adequate rest. She's been back at 15 for a couple of weeks when she really notices it in him; he's cooked for her post-class again, as has been the norm more often than not since her return. She cleans up the kitchen, surprised at how strongly she has to insist before he concedes, and when she walks into her living room, he's fallen into a light doze while sitting up on the sofa. He's been doing a pretty decent job of concealing how much he's overextending himself: work, classes, being a good… whatever he is to her.

She thinks about it after he leaves later that evening (even following multiple reassurances that he's fine to drive home plus two cups of coffee, she's still slightly concerned he'll fall asleep at the wheel and makes him text her once he arrives safely at his place). He might have said he was going to do everything, but it's beyond unfair to actually _let_ him. If they're actually going to have a relationship, the work can't all be unilateral.

The next day, she quietly asks Traci if she still has her detective course manuals. "Yeah, at my place. Why?"

"Do you know how often they're changed or updated?" Andy questions.

Traci wrinkles her nose. "Like, once every five years, if that. Or when there's some big screw-up and they rewrite a bunch of stuff. You thinking about joining your boyfriend and me in the land of the D's?"

"Shhh! No! And he's not my…"

"Uh-huh," Traci says with a grin. "You can call it whatever you want, Miss 'Taking It Slow,' but a boyfriend by any other name? Still a boyfriend."

Andy rolls her eyes. "Whatever. Can I borrow a couple of them? I'll come get them after work tonight."

Sam's in class until ten, so she's on her own as it is. After stopping at both Traci's and a nearby drugstore, she sits down at her kitchen table and begins to work.

The next night, Sam is somewhat restless as a movie plays before them in the living room. (She ordered pizza before he could show up and start rummaging for ingredients: "You get tonight off. Executive decision.") He agreed to the movie, remarking that it would be good to decompress a little, but he's barely looking at the screen, his leg bouncing up and down as he taps his foot rapidly on the floor.

Andy sits up and pauses the DVD player. "What's going on?"

He looks up as if she's startled him, despite having no clear distractions to speak of. "Huh?"

She motions to his hyperactive leg. "Got a lot of energy to burn?"

"Uh, not really. I…" He sighs in response to her skeptical glance. "Yeah, all right, I guess I'm kind of somewhere else right now. Last week of class and all that."

She nods, knowing that after this, he's done. "Test anxiety?"

"_Anxiety_ is a little strong," he muses, making a face. "More like… when I was in school, I figured out how much work I needed to do in order to be slightly above average, and that's exactly what I did. It never seemed all that important to drive myself nuts for an A if a B-minus got me what I needed. I'm not used to caring about stuff like this."

"It's good that you care," she points out. "Better than going through all of this effort for something you don't want at all."

"I know," he sighs. "And most of the other classes didn't have tests at the end. These two are… well, they want to make sure you're ready."

"You are."

He shrugs. "I guess we'll find out. I keep reading the same thing over and over, it shouldn't be like I'm seeing it for the first time, but it usually is."

"You know, when you get to the point that you're not absorbing any new information, it's sometimes good to change the method you're using to study." She smiles a little, reaching over to the end table beside the couch and pulling open the drawer. "And lucky for you, I _did_ drive myself nuts in school for good grades."

"Nerd," he teases.

She quirks an eyebrow. "See if you're complaining in a minute." She hands him a stack of index cards, neatly wrapped in a rubber band, and waits.

He removes the elastic, looking through the pile. Recognition suddenly dawns on his face, along with an astounded grin. "You made me flashcards?"

"Yep," she says proudly.

"_That's_ why the side of your hand has ink all over it?"

She glances at her little finger and the outside edge of her palm, which indeed still have a faint stain marking them. "Battle scars."

He shakes his head, laughing a little. "God, you really are a nerd."

She smiles. "I figured you'd think you were too cool. If you don't need them, I'm sure Traci could use a refresher."

"Hey, hey." He places the cards down, puts a hand on her arm. "This is… Thank you, Andy."

"Anytime." She picks up the stack, peeling off the topmost one and holding it up. "Now tell me what the protocol is for holding suspects for questioning without placing them under arrest."

* * *

He passes everything with flying colors, which doesn't surprise her in the slightest. (It only took a couple of rounds with the deck of flashcards to demonstrate how well he actually knew the content.) Oliver insists on buying him "a drink or three" at the Penny to celebrate his official promotion; Andy's only too happy to head out there after work as well, as she hasn't spent a ton of time with her friends as of late. After shift, she showers and changes into the same clothes she wore in to the station in the morning, but with certain adjustments invisible to most. No one asks, but she's completely prepared to maintain that she and Traci were out shopping anyway, so she didn't really make a special effort or anything.

(As it is, when she first slipped the hanger off the rack, she heard Traci break into laughter behind her.

"Well, if _that_ doesn't scream Seduction 101…")

Andy denied it at the time, but two hours and as many drinks in, an underwire she didn't notice when she initially tried on the set is starting to dig into her skin and she's finding herself becoming progressively more impatient. Sam's still at the bar with Oliver, nursing the same Scotch he's had since they sat down, and she's only half paying attention to whatever bet Gail and Dov are currently establishing (something pertaining to the next karaoke night). She downs the last of her beer and stands up, pulling on her jacket. "I'm pretty tired. Gonna call it a night."

On her way to the door, she stops by the bar. Sam looks up at her as she places a hand on his arm. "I, uh… well, I'm heading out. Just thought I'd say congratulations again. Have a good night, guys."

She exits, taking a couple of slow paces toward his truck in the parking lot. _Five, four, three, two_…

As if on cue, she hears, "Need a ride?"

She turns around; smiles.

He walks her upstairs, and when she invites him in, she makes it clear that there's no room for argument. As he closes the door behind them, she sheds her jacket and looks at him expectantly.

"Yes?" he says with a hesitant grin. "Want a drink or something? I like to think I know my way around your kitchen at this point."

"Nope." She loosens the top button of her striped oxford shirt. "See, here's the thing. I went to a lot of trouble to, uh… put this on by myself." She continues to unbutton until the shirt is open to just above her sternum, a hint of black lace discernible underneath, and takes a step toward him. "I'd rather not have to take it off alone, too."

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, hands coming up to rest on her sides. When he speaks again, his voice seems to have dropped an octave. "Can't have that."

"No, we can't," she barely has time to agree before his lips are on hers. Within a minute, she finds her legs wrapped around his waist and feels herself being carried backward toward the bedroom.

_People can say what they will about this man_, she thinks to herself afterward, exhausted and sated, _but he knows a thing or two about making up for lost time_. "I love you," he murmurs into her ear; she contentedly returns the sentiment. The way his arms are securing her to him, it's fairly obvious that he has no intention of letting her go anywhere – which is convenient, she reasons, because she has no intention of being let go.

* * *

In the morning, he makes pancakes. (Blueberry, banana, _and_ chocolate chip, because when he gently rouses her to ask what kind she wants, she sleepily replies that they all sound good before pulling her pillow over her head.) They talk a bit, but mostly pass sections of the paper back and forth, happy and comfortable in one another's presence.

She leans back and pats her stomach exaggeratedly once she finishes eating. "I have to tell you, I could get used to this."

He raises an eyebrow. "Which part?"

"Mmm…" She pretends to mull it over. "All of it."

"Well, not to rain on your parade, but you might want to curb your expectations a little," he says with an easy smile.

She feels a slight pang in her chest, but does her best not to show any reaction. "How so?"

"Well, you know. Pancakes probably have to be reserved for days off. If we had to be at work today, you would've gotten toast – if you were lucky."

She grins, relieved. "And if I wasn't?"

"Gruel," he says with a perfectly straight face.

"Of course," she laughs. "Fastest way to a woman's heart."

He leans toward her, eyes narrowing slightly. "What did you think I meant?"

"Nothing." She pushes her plate away, meeting his gaze. "Just, uh… do you think we're always going to be kind of messy?"

"Messy like…?"

"Like, tons of room for misunderstanding?"

"Probably, yeah." He sighs. "I guess we just… try to make sure we understand each other. You know?"

She nods. "Easier said than done." She's aware that he does this; _we're different, we'll deal with it_ comes to mind. The reality clearly didn't live up to the proclamation then, and she really wants to ensure that it does now.

"It is," he says slowly. "Falls under 'working at it.' If whatever we've been doing here is any indication, it's possible we might not be as bad at that as we thought."

"And that's okay with you? Even if we always have to work at it?"

"What was it you said to me not all that long ago?" he asks. "Oh, right. 'Worth it.'"

"Yeah." She smiles. "It is."

"Yeah." He starts to stand up to clear the dishes, but she stops him with a hand.

"Know what?"

"Hmm?"

"I'd, uh…" She bites her lip. "I'd rather be messy with you than neat and tidy with anyone else."

He grins. "Right back at you, McNally."


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Thank you for the wonderful feedback on the last chapter! I wasn't planning on this one at all, but the story sort of took itself in this direction. It might seem to be a bit of a detour, but I can't resist an opportunity to delve into Sam's back story and family life – and I believe that until Andy knows as much about his past as he knows about hers, things will always be kind of unbalanced between them. (Hopefully the showrunners have a similar belief, and we'll see it play out in S4… but maybe this will suffice until then.)

These chapters also seem to keep getting longer and longer – I hope the fact that I apparently can't shut up isn't too bad a thing. Let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: Still don't own anything. (Except for a pair of cats, one considerably more well-fed than the other.)

* * *

"So… remind me what you told them about me," Andy requests as Sam turns the truck onto a residential side street.

He shakes his head. "I haven't called to give them any new information since the last time you asked me this an hour ago."

"Well…" She fiddles with the hem of her shirt, as she's been doing nearly nonstop since they left Toronto. "Just making sure."

He pulls up in front of a Colonial house with a long porch and turns off the ignition before shifting to look at her. "Andy."

"What?" she protests. "I don't think it's so wrong to be prepared."

He sighs. "You didn't have to come with me, if the idea of it freaked you out that much."

"It's not freaking me out, it's just… you know, we've only technically been doing this for a couple months, and there's something about the whole 'meeting the family' thing. Big step, right?"

"It's only as big a step as you want to make it." His face softens a little, and he puts a hand on her arm. "You want to be here?"

She nods. "Of course."

"Good. You want to be here, I want you here, there's really no reason I can think of that any of them will disagree with us."

"Okay." She smiles and unfastens her seatbelt before turning back to him with a start. "Um… that thing awhile back about wanting to punish and torture me was a joke, right?"

"Mostly." He raises an eyebrow before breaking into a smile. "Yes."

"No, I mean…" She gestures rapidly with both hands. "They _do_ know you're bringing me?"

Sam groans. "Yes, McNally, they know. Unlike that ambush you set me up for a few weeks ago, everyone involved in this situation has fair warning."

(Sam only found out Tommy was coming over for dinner when he knocked at the door. Ultimately, it wasn't _that_ bad after the initial greeting; Tommy walked into the foyer, stared Sam down silently for a long moment, then proceeded further inside. By the end of the evening, the palpable awkwardness had dwindled to a minimal level – although when Tommy shook his hand before leaving, Sam felt his knuckles crack pretty hard.)

"Like I told you, I just forgot I made dinner plans with him…" Andy asserts weakly.

"And like I told _you_," Sam responds. "You're a terrible liar."

She shrugs. "You love me anyway."

"True." He grins. "Come on."

As they approach the front door, Andy hears a cacophony of shouts and barks. The door opens and both of them quickly move out of the way to avoid the stream of kids and dogs that comes barreling out onto the porch and across the yard. One boy, with unkempt dark hair and scraped elbows peeking out from beneath an oversized polo shirt, turns around for a second and yells, "Hi, Uncle Sam!" before running after the group.

Andy looks at Sam quizzically; he shrugs and motions toward the open door. "I think we can go in."

They enter the house, where they're greeted with the rhythmic thump of music coming through the ceiling, as well as faint but distinctly young female voices singing along. A petite brunette walks into the front hall, wiping her hands on a dishcloth, stopping with a smile when she spots them. "Oh, good," she says. "Mason let you in?"

Sam returns the smile. "In a manner of speaking. How you doing?"

"Oh, you know. The usual insanity around here, wouldn't have it any other way." She approaches Sam, kisses his cheek. "You look good, little brother."

"I always look good."

Sarah rolls her eyes. "And you're as modest as ever." She turns away from him. "You must be Andy," she says briskly, extending a hand. "I'm Sarah. I give you a lot of credit for putting up with this one."

"Hey!" Sam shoots her an indignant look.

Andy chuckles and shakes the hand offered. "Nice to meet you."

"You too," Sarah responds. "You'll both be in the guest room – top of the stairs, first room on the left. Ignore the music, if you can. It's finally gotten to the point that I can block Justin Bieber out entirely." She shrugs. "The blessing and the curse of the eleven-year-old girl."

"Rob around?" Sam asks. "Figured we could get some work done on the roof this afternoon, if he wants."

Sarah rolls her eyes. "He's at Home Depot for the fifth time in two days. I'm convinced the roof is actually fine and he just wants a project. You'd think being a contractor, he'd get enough of it, but if he had his way, he'd tear this place apart once a year and put it back together one nail at a time. Nice of you to come help, though, Sammy. It's a good excuse to see you."

He shrugs. "We can start whenever he gets back. I'll just bring our stuff upstairs." It looks like there's something else he wants to say, but he just moves toward their bags; Andy is unsure whether to accompany him or remain in the hall.

"Andy, how are you at grating cheese?"

"Huh?" She looks up at Sarah. "Oh… good. I mean, I've never really had my cheese-grating skills evaluated, but I think I can hold my own."

"Follow me. Lunch is kind of a free-for-all around here on weekends, but if I don't start early on dinner and prep a lot for later in the week, we end up eating nothing but pizza and drive-through. Thrills the kids, but makes me question my parenting skills." She walks quickly toward the kitchen, Andy behind her, and points to the table. "All of the cheddar and half the mozzarella. When you're done, there are still a couple sandwiches in the fridge if you're hungry."

Andy gets to work as Sarah sets a large pot of water on the stove to boil and begins slicing vegetables atop a cutting board on the counter. "Are, um… everyone who ran out of here just now, are they all yours?"

"The dogs, yes," Sarah says, dicing a bell pepper. "The kids, no. Half the neighborhood is usually over here. Mason's mine; he's the one who likes his clothes too big and has managed to go eight years without learning how to comb his hair. You'll see Emma whenever she and her entourage get hungry enough to leave her room. So, Sam told me you two met at work?"

"Uh, yeah, sort of." Andy focuses on the block of cheddar in her hand, turning it periodically to keep her knuckles away from the sharp edges of the grater. "We actually… well, it was my first day, and he was undercover, and…"

Sarah stops, setting the chef's knife down on the cutting board. "Wait. _You_ were that rookie?" She tosses her head back with a short laugh. "Oh, that's fantastic."

Andy looks up in alarm. "I've gotten a lot better, for what it's worth."

"No, no." Sarah walks around the kitchen island, leaning against it with arms crossed. "It's not that. For months afterward, Sam talked about his rookie – you, I guess – nonstop. Mostly complaining about you not listening to him or putting yourself in danger, but it was pretty clear that there was something else going on. He denied having feelings for you, but I bet him that he was wrong."

"Who was wrong?" Sam says as he enters the kitchen, making a beeline for the refrigerator.

Sarah chuckles. "That would be you. And it turns out you owe me fifty dollars."

"Why do I…" He looks from Sarah to Andy, and suddenly groans. "Nope. No way. You have no proof of when this started." He removes a sandwich from the fridge, reaching for a paper towel to hold beneath it.

"Andy?" Sarah asks. "Care to give me a timeline?"

As she attempts to formulate a response, Sam grumbles around a mouthful of turkey and bread, "All right, all right. You win."

Sarah walks back around toward the cutting board, her face triumphant. "_That_ didn't take long."

"Because _someone_ can't lie," he mutters. Andy shoots a mock glare at him. "Not that it's a bad thing in general," he clarifies with a wink, running a hand over her shoulder as he takes a seat at the table beside her.

"Yeah, just when it costs you," she retorts, returning to her assigned task.

Sam turns to Sarah. "Hey, I don't suppose I can pay it off in roof work, can I?"

Rob arrives home shortly thereafter, crew cut and stocky build, and following introductions, he and Sam make their way outside. Sarah and Andy continue to work in the kitchen, their companionable small talk punctuated by the sharp thud of hammers and strains of muffled bubblegum pop. Every now and then, a barrage of children pours back in, milling around them to grab snacks. Andy's amazed at how Sarah springs into action, reaching into the fridge for juice with one hand while keeping overenthusiastic canines away from the countertop with the other.

"Is it always like this?" Andy inquires once things have settled down.

"No. Only during waking hours." She grins. "You know, it's funny. When I was thirteen, ah… Did Sam tell you?"

Andy nods.

"Well, everyone's solution after that was to try and give me _peace_. Like any kind of noise or excitement would upset me too much. And the quieter it was, the more stuck I felt in all the memories I wanted nothing to do with." She shrugs. "Turns out I thrive on chaos."

"Sam asked me once if I'm allergic to silence," Andy supplies. "I, um… I get where you're coming from."

She's trying really hard not to think about how Claire still hasn't called her back, about how a minuscule but incredibly persistent part of her is still terrified that things with Sam will somehow fall apart again. Sound, be it talking or music or tools on a rooftop, helps to drown out the fears. It's nice to know someone shares her mentality.

* * *

A couple hours later, with almost a week's worth of meal components prepared and stored in the fridge and freezer, Sarah pops the macaroni and cheese into the oven to warm up. "Do me a favor," she says. "Go stick your head outside and let the construction crew know that dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. Ask Rob to yell for Mason before he comes down, he can usually see whose yard he's in from up there. I'll go get Emma out of her tweenage wasteland."

Sam grins down at her when she calls up to them, his hair and T-shirt damp with perspiration in the shimmering late-afternoon sun. He climbs down the ladder leaning against the side of the house, Andy holding the base of it steady until he reaches the bottom.

"How was your afternoon?" he asks, putting a hand on her waist.

She takes a couple of small steps back. "Good, until I smelled you."

"Oh, yeah?" he says, his smile becoming what Andy can only describe as diabolical. "Because I've been working hard up there, and I could use a big hug." In one large step, he's got her wrapped up in a sweaty embrace, from which her struggles to escape quickly prove futile.

"Sam, you're gross!" she protests, giggling uncontrollably.

"Actually, now I'm pretty sure we're gross _together_," he corrects her. "What a beautiful thing that is, don't you think?"

He showers quickly (she probably doesn't _need _to change her shirt, but she does anyway), and they head back down to the kitchen. Emma is standing near the table, talking rapidly into the cordless phone. Clad in a pink top that reads "Do I Look Like I Care?" in glittery letters, she's essentially a smaller version of Sarah, with a long ponytail's worth of her father's tawny hair. She hangs up the phone and turns to her mother as Andy and Sam walk in.

"Mom, Kim and Tasha are going to the skate park tonight, can I go?"

"Do Kim and Tasha plan on cracking their heads open on the half-pipe?" Sarah asks evenly. "Start setting the table."

"No, we're just going to get sodas and watch," Emma assures her, grabbing the stack of plates that Sarah has left out on the counter. "I'll be home by… nine. Maybe nine-thirty if we go back to Kim's after."

"How about… only if you help with the dinner dishes first, you're back no later than eight-thirty, and you all leave the park before it's dark out?"

"Mom!" Emma whines. "Ugh, fine." She looks up from the silverware she's sorting. "Oh, hey, Uncle Sam. Hey, Uncle Sam's lady friend."

Sam laughs. "Nice to see you, too, Emma."

Mason comes running in then, accompanied by a friend whom Sarah gives permission to stay for dinner; Rob follows shortly thereafter. The dogs are out in the backyard, so other than a minor scuffle involving peas being flung across the table, dinner is a relatively calm affair. Andy notices, however, that Sarah has filled and set aside an extra plate on the counter.

As Andy rinses plates and hands them to Emma to be placed in the dishwasher, she hears Sam ask Sarah, "How's she been?"

"It hasn't been the best week," Sarah answers softly. "I think she'll be glad to see you, though. Bring the food down to her, would you?"

He sighs. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

"And take Andy with you."

"Sarah…"

"Just trust me." In a louder voice, Sarah addresses her. "Emma and I can take care of the rest of those. Why don't you two go ahead?"

Andy looks at Sam quizzically as he hands her a bottle of water and a couple of utensils, picking up the full plate himself, but he doesn't explain further. He just leads her to a door just off the kitchen, and they descend a staircase to the basement.

A washer and dryer stand on one side of the small space at the bottom of the stairs, across from a shelving unit. There's another door on the back wall; Sam knocks and waits until he hears a voice from within before entering.

They walk into what appears to be a small studio apartment. Actually, Andy thinks, it's not all that unlike the Crap Shack, but a bit larger and much better kept. A neatly made bed rests in one corner; a loveseat and TV stand are lined up near another wall, and a small table covered with a blue cloth sits in the middle of the room, a chair on either side. The walls are adorned with framed prints: serene-looking beaches, close-ups of flowers. A slight woman is perched on the loveseat, an afghan over her lap and an enormous cat curled up by her side.

Sam stops at the table to place the plate down and approaches her slowly, crouching down so that they're at eye level. "Hi, Mom," he says gently.

She looks up from the TV, the slightest of smiles crossing her face. "Sam," she says simply, briefly reaching toward him to place a hand on his face.

"How are you?" he asks.

It takes her a moment to answer. "You know," she finally says, somewhat absently. "The same."

He takes a deep breath. "Well, Henry looks good," he responds, reaching forward to pet the cat's head. "Looks well-fed."

"Hmm," she agrees.

He swallows hard. "Um, Mom, I want you to meet someone. Andy, this is my mother, Lynn." He suddenly motions to Andy.

She is in no way certain of how to proceed; Sam mentioned before their arrival that his mother was a woman of few words, but she'd been predicting someone like him. This is… different. But she recognizes that this a moment for acting rather than thinking, so she drops the silverware and water on the table beside the plate and walks over, moving into a similar position to Sam's.

"Hi," she says softly. "I'm Andy."

Lynn's smile widens the tiniest bit. "You're the reason he looks so happy."

"I, uh…" She's at a loss. "It's very nice to meet you."

"You as well. This is Henry."

"Um… can I pet him?" Andy asks.

Lynn nods. "He'd like that."

They remain downstairs for a few more minutes before Sam reminds his mother that they've brought her dinner; he smoothly helps her stand, guiding her to the table. Once she's started eating, they excuse themselves and head back upstairs.

Andy's got approximately five hundred questions, but before she can speak (or even figure out what she wants to ask), Mason tugs Sam's sleeve and asks if he can practice throwing spirals with him. "I just learned last week, I'm getting really good."

Sam shrugs at Andy a little before heading out to the yard with his nephew. Sarah touches her arm. "Go ahead out and sit on the porch. I'm making some tea now."

They sit on rockers, sipping the tea and watching Sam and Mason throw a football back and forth. Two of the dogs, hoping to snatch the ball from mid-air, run between them. Sarah places her mug down on the small table between them with a sigh. "It's surprising the first time you meet her, I know."

"Hmm?" Andy looks up.

"Our mother. She's... not well. She does spend more time with the rest of us when she's up to it, but unfortunately, you've caught her in a bad patch."

Andy wraps her hands around the warm ceramic. "Um, not to pry, but when you say 'not well'…"

Sarah sighs. "Major depressive disorder. It was always a struggle, but she felt guilty after what happened to me – like she could've done something to prevent it somehow. And then when we found out about our father a couple of years later… They hadn't been together in the longest time, since Sam was a baby, really. But I guess as long as he was alive, she didn't feel like she was on her own, even if she essentially was."

"That's… wow." Andy takes another sip of tea. "Did she, I don't know, ever see someone, or…?"

"On and off," Sarah responds. "But it became mostly 'on' after her first attempt."

"Attempt?"

"Tried to drown herself in the bathtub," Sarah relays as objectively as if she's reading a grocery list. It's fairly clear that she's told this story before; Andy doesn't blame her for attempting to separate the facts from whatever emotions she still might have associated with it. "I was sixteen, so Sam must have been just about twelve. She waited until we were at school… the downstairs neighbors found her when water started coming through their ceiling. She spent the next fourteen months in psychiatric lockdown."

_Holy crap_. Andy looks at Sam, now showing Mason something with the laces of the football, and wonders what the twelve-year-old version of him looked like. How he handled it; if he ever even did.

"Wait." Andy turns back to Sarah. "So what happened to you two, then? If your mother was…"

"Foster care," Sarah responds, almost surprised. "He didn't…" She exhales deeply. "Of course he didn't tell you. He didn't really talk about this while it was happening; pretty unlikely that he'd start spilling his guts twenty-five years after the fact." A Saint Bernard comes bounding up the porch steps from the yard then, settling its head on Sarah's leg.

_Lots of kids go into foster care and come out just fine_. "He, uh… he made mention of it, in a roundabout way," Andy says. (Even if she didn't realize it at the time.) "How long?"

"We were with the same family for almost two years, until I aged out. Sam stayed with them almost another year, until I was able to get myself together a bit, find a place for us to live."

"Were they, um…" Andy's not sure how to ask this. "How was it, living with them?"

"Oh, they were great," Sarah assures her. "Well, if you _have_ to be in foster care, anyway. It was a couple in their fifties; their own kids were done with university, and they just wanted to do more." She scratches the dog behind its ears. "They actually had a few dogs themselves. It was when pet therapy was just starting to become a thing, they were big proponents of it. One of the dogs was this great big Mastiff – drooled a lot, but he was the sweetest animal in the world. Did more to help me than years of counseling had, and in less than half the time." She smiles softly. "That's what I do now. All four of ours are registered therapy dogs; I take them to nursing homes, shelters, wherever they're needed."

"That's amazing," Andy replies. "Uh, your mom's not a dog fan, I take it?"

Sarah laughs. "No. Unlike me, quiet works for her, and Henry's not especially noisy. He's just a big furry lump, but he's all the company she wants most of the time."

Andy nods.

"When we built that apartment for her down there, Rob put in soundproofing," Sarah continues. "I used to worry that she was lonely, but believe it or not, this life works for her. They tried setting her up in her own place with outpatient therapy so many times, and she just… couldn't do it. She kept ending up back in the hospital because she wasn't getting to her appointments or taking care of herself. Finally, we realized we could either move her here – make sure she eats, gets her medication, all of that – or she'd end up in some kind of long-term care." She shrugs. "Really wasn't a question."

Andy drinks the last of her tea, now tepid, and puts the empty mug down. "That family that you and Sam lived with," she says suddenly, remembering the conversation they had just before she was offered the task force position. "What did he think of the dogs?"

Sarah grins. "He really liked one. Cleo – she was the dumbest, ugliest animal any of us had ever seen, and I say that with great affection. She followed Sam around like he was the only person on earth. Slept at the foot of his bed and all that."

Andy tries to imagine an adolescent Sam bonding with a mutt; throwing a tennis ball across the yard, only to roll his eyes and swear when the dog proceeded to chase her tail instead. She doesn't even realize she's giggling until she finds that she can't stop.

* * *

Later that night, after the kids have gone to bed and Sarah and Rob have bid them goodnight, they head into the guest room. ("I'm assuming you're capable of staying in there together without scarring my children, right, little brother?" Sarah says with a smirk.)

Face washed and teeth brushed, she climbs into bed and turns off the lamp. A minute later, she feels the bed dip.

"I'll say one thing about Rob," Sam remarks, sprawling on his back with both hands tucked behind his head. "When he actually focuses on a project instead of looking for eight million more, it gets done fast. Another hour or so tomorrow, and we should be finished."

Andy makes a noncommittal noise, moving closer to him. He extends the arm closest to her, tucking her into his side.

"Everything okay?" he asks, a nearly imperceptible caution in his tone.

"I love you," she blurts out. "You know that, right?"

He chuckles. "Uh, yeah, I had a hunch. I love you too. What…" He stops, takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Sarah told you."

She nods into his shoulder, unsure how to gauge his reaction. She doesn't think he'll be tremendously pissed off about it or anything, but just in case, she quickly begins mentally preparing a speech about how the information was volunteered. (Somehow, she suspects he has less of a capacity for remaining angry at Sarah than at her.)

"Any questions?"

She cranes her neck to look up at him. He's not mad at all, actually, a significant departure from the guarded and tight-lipped Sam she keeps expecting to see re-emerge. "Nope. I think Sarah covered everything pretty well."

"Good." He runs his hand along the outer edge of her shoulder. "Glad you seem to get along with her okay. She moves at the speed of light; some people probably find that off-putting."

Andy shrugs. "No, it was fine as soon as I realized you just have to keep up."

"Yep." He laughs. "It helps if you can understand speed-talking. Listen to her long enough, and she'll cover just about everything under the sun."

Andy starts to smile, but Sam's last sentence continues to echo across her mind. She considers the words, turns them over and pulls them apart a few times before she speaks. "You wanted her to tell me." Her voice is neutral, but both of them know it's not a question.

"I wanted you to know." He sighs. "I think I'm getting better with full disclosure when it comes to this kind of stuff, but there are certain things that I just… I can't. And rather than wait twenty years to figure out how…"

She nods. "I get it. I do." She stretches her arm out across his waist, pulls herself in closer. "You know, I never really had pets."

He rests his chin against the top of her head. "No?"

"Not unless you count hermit crabs," she says. "I painted their shells with nail polish so I could tell them apart. That was probably a bad idea, though."

"Why's that?"

"Because whenever I would use certain colors, they'd die within a few days. Punk-Rock Pink was especially murderous."

He snorts. "Sounds pretty violent."

They lie there for several minutes in silence before she speaks again. "A dog might be good at some point."

She feels him smile against her hair. "Yeah?"

"Mm-hmm. One caveat, though."

"Go."

"Unless you've got some epic tale about what Boo Radley means to you, the name's going to have to be negotiable."

He chuckles. "Just you wait."


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Thank you so much for the feedback on the last chapter! The dog situation is temporarily on hold, but rest assured it'll come up again soon; there were a few more relationship things I wanted to show first. There are a couple of flashbacks here, as well as a slight time jump (couple of months) since the last chapter, but we didn't miss much. :) As always, I love to know what you think, so don't hesitate to let me know.

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

* * *

Andy sort of wonders sometimes how she thought things were all that good the first time around. Not that there weren't moments or days – she did fall in love with him then, although she suspects that she pretty much always was – but if that was good, then this? _This_ is nothing short of amazing.

She won't go so far as to call it perfect, for two reasons: one, because she's plenty aware that it's a loaded word, and it does no one any good for her to establish expectations of something that's basically nonexistent.

Two… well, it's not. It's been close to six months since Sam's promotion, since the night (and more important morning after) of their tacit agreement that wherever they were headed, they wanted to get there together. And while they _are _together in every sense, they still misinterpret things that the other implies. They bicker, test one another's patience, have the occasional all-out showdown when a comment or retort goes a little too far.

(She threw a spatula at him a couple weeks ago. It was plastic, and she missed, but she's still not especially proud of it.)

Even so, while the escalations are borderline explosive, they're infrequent, and the two of them tend to bounce back fairly quickly. It's something she notices about their relationship now that wasn't particularly evident before: there's a resilience present, their respective stubbornness focused more on fighting for one another than against. And the good outweighs the bad so strongly, it's hard to remain angry or pessimistic. Their possessions are more or less divided evenly between their two houses at this point, as it's rare that they spend a night apart. She makes sure he has dinner when he has to work late, helps with the endless paperwork he brings home with every case (ignoring his periodic remarks that "Looks like you _did_ learn something as my rookie, huh?"). In turn, if she works the afternoon shift and doesn't have another ride home when she gets off at midnight, he'll drive her, even if it means waiting around for an hour or returning to the station to finish up after dropping her off. (She continually insists that she can hang out until he's done, but he hasn't listened since that time she spent her whole shift running around at a chaotic stadium event and fell asleep in the locker room.)

He's also consistently good about getting out at a reasonable hour a lot of the time, though, so it's frequently a moot point. She asked him pretty recently how he manages to swing it; she didn't mention the contrast between Luke's workaholic tendencies and his own comparatively truncated hours, but the implication is clear to both of them.

He shrugged. "When I took the promotion, I told Frank my life has to come first as much as possible. He gets that, a lot more than he used to."

Their ongoing efforts to keep things on the down-low at work notwithstanding, Andy fully believes that their boss knows something is up. Noelle, fifteen minutes into her first shift back from maternity leave three months ago, overheard their affable morning greetings beside the coffee machine (exchanging pleasantries despite the fact that they'd woken up and eaten breakfast together not an hour beforehand) and cornered Sam moments later. Andy was painstakingly stirring milk into her coffee, pretending not to listen, but she picked up on Noelle hissing, "About _time_ you stopped being an ass and worked it out!" followed by Sam's feigned innocence. (Andy commented to Sam later that night that if Noelle ever decided to go out for detective, she would turn 15 into a one-woman operation and they'd all be out of a job.)

Of course, even if Noelle didn't share her impressions with Frank, which Andy highly doubts, that little incident at Sam's last month couldn't _not_ have led to suspicion.

* * *

The evening was progressing calmly enough; they'd just finished dinner and had put on a baseball game, which they were definitely not watching when a knock came at the front door.

Sam looked up toward the front hall, startled, then shook his head. "Ignore it, they'll go away," he muttered against Andy's lips. Not thirty seconds later, though, the visitor knocked again – only now it sounded more like multiple fists were pounding on the door. "Let's go, brother! Open up!" they faintly heard Oliver yell.

Sighing heavily, Sam rested his forehead on Andy's shoulder in apparent defeat before hauling himself off the couch, grumbling, "I have no idea what he wants." The pounding continued as he made his way into the hall. "Yeah, all right, cool it!" he yelled as he approached the door. Andy sat up, raking her disheveled hair into some semblance of order with her fingers, bolting to her feet when she heard not only Oliver's voice carrying through the house, but others – Frank, Sal from night shift, Bradley from evidence. She shoved her feet half into her shoes and slung her bag over her shoulder as the group began filtering into the living room, carrying poker chips, beer, and snacks among them.

Oliver blanched a little at the sight of her, nearly dropping the two boxes of hot wings in his hands, but recovered quickly. "That's right! I forgot you two were doing that thing for work tonight."

(It wasn't especially convincing, but Andy appreciated the effort regardless.)

Frank looked at Oliver quizzically, then back at Andy. "Joining us for poker night, McNally?"

Sam, behind the rest of them, met her eyes with a somewhat uneasy _I have no idea what's happening_ face.

Andy shook her head, trying to keep herself unruffled. "Nope, we were just going over some details for a case. I was heading out anyway." She walked past the group toward the door with a series of curt nods. "Gentlemen. Swarek."

Sam was pretty unfazed about it when he picked her up before work the next morning. "He hasn't done it in a while, but Ollie sometimes likes to announce to one of us that we're hosting poker night by just showing up. They didn't say anything about it after you left, and I took all their money." He motioned to the paper cup sitting in the holder beside the passenger seat. "That means _you_ get one of those horrifying flavored lattes you like when you're stressed out. Enjoy your diabetes."

She smiled softly, happily inhaling the warm aromas of vanilla and caramel emanating from the cup. "Thank you. And, you know, I'm not _stressed_."

"Shall we see what my 'received text messages' folder has to say about that?"

"No," she said quickly, well aware of her slightly panicked communications from the night before. "It's just…. we were keeping things professional."

"Uh, yeah. We are," he replied unconcernedly. "At work. Unless no one told me my house is now a part of the division, when people decide to show up unannounced, they're going to have to accept whatever they find." He slowed for a red light and turned to her. "Are you really that opposed to people finding out?"

She sipped her latte. "No," she answered sincerely. "I mean, rationally, I know nobody's going to care. That's just… well, not really how I expected to let our boss know."

Sam snorted, accelerating the truck as the light changed. "What, Frank? What do you think he's gonna do, wave a disapproving finger at us? Announce it during parade? The guy doesn't have a leg to stand on when it comes to commenting on interoffice relationships."

"True," she acknowledged. "I guess a detective and an almost-senior officer doesn't have the same power imbalance as a staff sergeant and a T.O."

"That's the spirit," he said with a grin. "And hey, you know. Depending on how far all of this goes, there might be no hiding it at some point."

She turned to him in surprise, in no way having expected that particular implication, but they'd already pulled into the division lot. He stopped the car to let her out before going to look for a parking space. "See you later, colleague."

* * *

She's been thinking about it a lot, these past few weeks. _Depending on how far all of this goes…_ Everything's been great, maybe to the point that she should have been contemplating their future long before now – but, she considers, maybe the reason things have been as good as they are is because they're simply living it, rather than worrying about where it might be going.

"So after _that_, I didn't know what to tell her, but… Andy?" Nick's voice invades her thoughts from his spot in the driver's seat of the cruiser. She jumps a little, realizes she's been staring out the window for some indeterminable length of time.

"Sorry, sorry," she says. "My brain's kind of somewhere else today."

Nick smirks. "Daydreaming about Swarek?"

She rolls her eyes. "Really? I spend every shift for months hearing the sordid details of Operation: Take Three with Gail, and the first opportunity you get to turn it around on me…"

(Nick figured it out the second week they started riding together permanently, not all that long after she once again started thinking of herself as taken.

"Nothing's going on…" Andy began to protest, but Nick just shook his head.

"You know, for two people who've done so much undercover work, you'd think stealth wouldn't be such a challenge."

Andy sputtered a little. "What are you talking about?"

"Two weeks ago, at the Penny."

Andy groaned. _That_ had been Sam's idea: eradicate any bad memories associated with the bar by replacing them with better ones. Making out in the alley for ten minutes didn't do a lot for either one's composure, though, just meant brick dust on the back of her jacket and a mutual overwhelming desire to get the hell out of there – which their flimsy excuses upon returning inside apparently didn't cover very well.

"It's not really my place to say anything to anyone, you know," Nick supplied. "So I'm not going to. But, you know, if you want to talk about it…"

"I don't, but thanks," Andy responded, a slight smile crossing her face.

He shrugged. "Long as you're happy."

Her smile grew wider.)

Nick sighs now. "I'm just really not sure what to make of the hot-and-cold thing. In the beginning, yeah, it made sense, but I'm telling you, if I hear the phrase 'two strikes' one more time…"

"Yeah, that's gotta suck," Andy sympathizes. As they fall back into silence, she's considering asking Nick if guys think about anniversaries, or if he thinks six months is one worth noting, when the radio crackles to life.

"1507, we have a burglary in progress at Point and Click Electronics on Grove and College."

They're practically around the corner; Andy grabs the radio. "Copy that, 1507 responding."

The small store appears empty from the window, with the exception of the cashier behind the counter and the perp – a gangly kid no more than 22, who looks tweaked out of his mind – pointing a gun in that direction. "Must've pressed the silent alarm," Andy hurriedly remarks as they approach the door and enter, guns drawn. "Police! Don't move."

The perp's head snaps toward them, all dilated pupils and twitchy mouth. "Okay! Okay, okay, I'm sorry," he says in a breathless rush.

"Put the gun down," Nick responds. "Nice and easy."

His gaze rapidly vacillates from Nick and Andy back to the cashier; the stalling gives them time to get a good look at the gun.

"It's not real," Andy whispers. "Probably a BB."

"Yeah," Nick confirms. Louder, he repeats, "Put it down, man. Come on, we can walk away from this, okay?"

The perp continues to look around the shop frantically, his whole body now turning along with his eyes; suddenly he drops the gun and bolts for the door. Andy tries to block his path, but he's shockingly strong, shoving her back hard into a media display. The force of the collision causes a few of the more precariously placed items, including a video game system on the shelf above her head, to topple forward, suspended in midair from power cords and security devices. The system crashes into her temple with an audible crack, and her visual field is overcome with white flashes as she feels herself sinking to the floor.

Everything's kind of a mess of sound for a minute; shuffling, voices, the jangle of bells on the inside of the shop's door. She feels something insistently rubbing her arm. Eventually, her vision clears, and she's able to see Nick kneeling in front of her, slightly out of breath. "Are you all right?"

She blinks, reaching up to her hairline. "I think so. Ow." She struggles to sit up further, attempting to ignore the dizziness that's making itself known more prominently by the second. "The kid, did you get him?"

Nick shakes his head. "He's a fast little bastard. But I called it in, and Diaz and Tobin just picked him up a few blocks away." He looks at her suspiciously. "Did you black out?"

"No." She wants to shake her head to emphasize the point, but it seems like a bad idea to move it any more than necessary.

He sighs. "Yeah, I'm taking you to the hospital."

"I'm fine, Nick…" she starts to argue, but he's not having any of it.

"Buddy of mine whacked his head pretty hard one day during basic. Said he was fine, three hours later he was getting brain surgery. We're going to the ER."

She sighs in defeat, hoping she doesn't hit the ground again on the way to the car.

It's a pretty slow morning at St. Mike's, and apparently potential head injuries are taken seriously, so she finds herself whisked off to the CT scanner and then to an exam room relatively quickly, a blood pressure cuff on her arm and a penlight being shined in her eyes far too often for her liking.

Nick stands in the corner. "Anyone you want me to call?" he asks pointedly.

She hesitates. "Um…"

"Okay, let me put it this way. Anyone who'll make sure I spend the next week sorting through thirty-year-old cold-case evidence if I _don't_ call?"

"Yeah, just…" She gingerly reaches up to smooth the stray tendrils of hair that have loosened themselves from her ponytail. "Tell him I'm fine and he doesn't need to come, okay?"

Nick shrugs. "I'll do my best." He steps out through the door as a nurse enters to ask her what the date is and check her pupils for the billionth time this hour; walks back in as the nurse is leaving.

"What'd you tell him?" Andy asks.

"That you're fine and he doesn't need to come."

"And?"

"He'll be here in fifteen minutes."

It's more like ten, though, when Nick's phone starts buzzing. He glances down at the screen. "Okay, Swarek's out in the lobby," he explains. "I'm just gonna show him where to go, and then probably head back to the barn, get started on paperwork from the burglary – unless you'd rather I stay?"

She gives shaking her head another try; it's not as vertigo-inducing as it was before. "I'm good. Thanks, I'll see you tomorrow?"

He smiles. "See you whenever they're sure your brain's not busted."

When Sam walks in not a minute later, she watches the tightly drawn lines of concern ebb slowly from his face as he takes in her appearance. He walks over silently and sits down at the end of the stretcher on which she's reclining. "Nice goose egg," he says, some worry still evident in his tone despite the attempt at humor.

She shrugs. "Never buy anything from Point and Click Electronics. They don't secure their display items very well, I'm guessing the rest of their merchandise isn't handled much better."

He leans toward her, brushes a hand gently over her forehead. "What happened?"

"Got shoved and a Playstation fell on my head." She reaches up and takes his hand, guides their joined fingers down toward her lap. "What is it about this job and sentences I never thought would come out of my mouth?"

He smiles for real then. "Hurt a lot?"

"A little. But they won't give me anything stronger than acetaminophen anyway, in case it makes me loopy and I can't answer the same questions over and over. I can deal with a little headache, though, it's no big deal."

(It's not that little of a headache, but there's nothing she can do about it except bide her time until she can take a nap. God, would a nap be good right now.)

They both look up as the doctor enters the room. "So, Officer McNally, your CT scan was completely unremarkable. I think we're looking at a fairly mild concussion, so there are still some things to watch out for, but if you have someone to give you a hand for the next day or two, there's no reason to keep you here."

"What are we watching out for?" Sam asks.

Armed with a list of instructions, including an array of ominous-sounding symptoms for which she's to return to the hospital immediately, they make their way to the parking lot. She's less dizzy now, but Sam keeps a firm hand on her back as they walk, helping her up into the cab of the truck.

"I'd tell you to go back to work after you drop me off," she says once he gets into the driver's seat, "but I have a feeling you're not going to listen."

"Nope," he says nonchalantly, buckling his seat belt. "You're stuck with me, McNally."

Back at the condo, she changes into sweats and they settle on the couch. She insists the sound from the TV doesn't bother her, but he keeps it off anyway, opting for the magazine lying on her coffee table. "I've always wanted to know how to dress for my body shape."

"Yeah, I'm sure," she laughs. It doesn't take long before she begins to drift off.

"Come on, Andy. You'll be more comfortable in the other room," he says, half-carrying and half-dragging her toward her bedroom. As she settles in, nestling her still-aching head against a soft feather pillow, she smiles a little. _Finally, some good solid sleep_.

Of course, that doesn't turn out to be the case. Her attention span disappeared in the ER immediately after 'there's no reason to keep you here', so the part where she needs to be awoken every two hours comes as something of a surprise. She's vaguely aware that it's happening each time, the light in the room shifting from late-afternoon sunlight to pinkish dusk to dark midnight sky. Sam keeps asking her questions, shaking it up with trivia he knows she has ingrained in her long-term memory so it's not the same three inquiries time and again, and makes her raise her arms and tell him how many fingers she sees and all sorts of other neuro party tricks before he'll let her go back to sleep. She has a feeling she's getting progressively more cranky, but she's never awake long enough to consider it beyond a fleeting idea.

It's been light for a while when she at last opens her eyes of her own volition. She still has a slight headache, but it's more just _there_ than actually painful, and the dizziness seems to have resolved itself as well. She has a hazy recollection of feeling queasy at some point during the night, but the constant sleep-wake disturbances are making it hard for her to remember details following her initial return home. She hears movement in the other room, suspecting that it's Sam.

Sure enough, he appears in the doorway shortly thereafter. "Feel better?" he asks, looking pretty wiped out himself despite the smile on his face.

She nods. "What time is it?"

"After eleven. It's been more than 24 hours, so you're basically out of the woods as far as complications." He's holding a coffee mug; lifts it up toward her. "You want some?"

"Yeah, maybe in a minute." She sits up slowly. "Did you sleep at all?"

"A little. I set my alarm to go off so I could wake you up when I had to, but you know how when you have to get up in a little while and it's all you can think about…"

"Yeah," she groans. "Thanks for all of that; wish you hadn't had to."

"Come on, we can't have you getting brain damage," he said with a smirk. "You, uh… you remember much?"

"It's all kind of a blur after you first made me go to bed," she responds. "Why, what happened?"

He's laughing to himself, shaking his head. "Oh, McNally. What happened indeed."

"What? Did I say anything weird, or…" She suddenly recalls what's been on her mind as of late regarding their undiscussed future; suddenly she's irrationally terrified that she drowsily proposed to him or something equally inappropriate, given the circumstances.

He sits down on the side of the bed, still chuckling. "Well, around six in the morning, I asked you to hold up two fingers."

"Okay, so?"

"Well, you picked an interesting two."

She looks at him blankly, wondering what he could possibly mean, and… _oh, that's special_. "I flipped you the bird, didn't I."

"Double bird." He nods, clearly amused. "You also told me that waking up is the root of all evil, and you were going to set all the alarm clocks on fire. Oh, and you puked."

She cringes; the rare occasions during which she's physically ill gross her out so thoroughly that she can't imagine another person having to see or deal with it. "Sorry."

He shrugs, shoots her a reassuring smile. "No big deal. You forget who I went through the Academy with. Of course, Ollie's hair is little easier to hold back than yours, but… minor detail."

"Mmm. I think I'm gonna take a shower." She pushes back the duvet, swings her legs over the edge of the bed. "I, um… wouldn't say no to company."

He pretends to consider it for a moment. "That can be arranged. No funny business, though."

"Oh, really." She feels a smile beginning to spread across her face.

"Really. Your mind's been blown enough recently, don't you think?"

She groans. "That was _terrible_. Like, I might revoke that invitation."

He just laughs, follows her toward the bathroom. She turns back to him.

"Sam?"

"Hmm."

"Thank you. Seriously."

He brushes a hand through his hair. "Like I said… you're stuck with me."

* * *

It resonates in her head for nearly a week after that. _You're stuck with me_, like he's jesting about something to which she should resign herself… but being stuck with him is all she can think about. She honestly can't remember the last time she wanted anything more.

So she tells him. They're watching TV on her couch, her head in his lap, his fingers running feather-light over her hair and the yellowing bruise on her temple. "I want this," she announces before she can lose her resolve.

He glances at her, perplexed. "Can you narrow it down a little?"

"This. You. Us. I want it." Noting that his expression is unchanged, she decides to leave no room for interpretation. "For good."

He gets that astonished look he had the first time she told him she loved him, and it instantly makes her nervous, so she keeps talking, pulls herself up to sit so they're at eye level with one another.

"I want to wake up with you and go to sleep with you and not have to commute across town to find half my clothes. I want us to not be able to walk away from each other when things get hard, and I just… I don't _care_ if it's hard sometimes, okay? I really don't, because that's just us, and I love us, and… I want you to be the one I'm flipping off when you're waking me up after a concussion. And, you know, I want you to be able to flip _me_ off when I'm waking _you_ up after a concussion."

He keeps looking at her like that for almost a full minute before opening his mouth. "You planning on giving me one?" he asks finally. "Gonna drop a Playstation on my head or something?"

"Sam…"

"Andy, I'm kidding, I…" He puts a hand on either side of her face, a slow grin blooming across his. "I want that too. All of that, I… yeah. Let's make it happen."

She nods, surprised at how shaky her breath feels when she exhales, and leans forward to kiss him. "Okay. Yeah. Good. That's good."

"What do you say we start by getting all our stuff in one place?" He's obviously nervous to ask, even though she's just made it as clear as day that she's more than amenable.

"You saying you want to move in here?" she asks with a grin.

"Maybe," he says with a deliberate slowness, like he's testing out the word. "Or, you know, you could move into my place."

"The condo's all shiny and new, though," she points out.

He shrugs. "My house is paid off."

"I have great light."

"I have a yard."

"I… like that yard." She squints. "What about maybe finding a new place altogether? If you wanted, I mean. It could work."

"It could." He smiles. "We'll figure it out."

She returns the smile, leans back against him. "I love you."

"Love you too." He takes a deep breath. "No going back?"

She leans her head up to meet his eyes. "No going back."


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Wow, thank you all so much for your amazing reviews! This is the last chapter of this story; hopefully you'll be pleased with the conclusion. Since we've seen things progress through Andy's eyes thus far, I decided to let Sam wrap it up. This takes place a total of about three-ish years after 3x13, and yes, there are plenty of flashbacks to fill you in. I also decided to bring in and put a twist on one of the new Season 4 characters, for whom there's been speculation that I personally find unfavorable. :) Oh, and don't mind the Star Wars references; I can never resist the urge to give Sam a hidden dorky side. I hope you enjoy, and thank you so much for reading!

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

* * *

He's never been one for having pictures around. There's a box in Sarah's attic that contains a pile of faded snapshots from their childhood, but it's not really something either of them like to remember in great detail, even if she's more skilled at talking about it than he is.

(She accused him once of wanting to believe that he sprang forth from the womb fully formed as a 20-year-old. His response: "Learned it by watching you.")

Even once he reached adulthood and started experiencing things worth remembering, it's rare that he's obtained pictorial evidence of them. (Not like one can really display a photo album of cherished memories in a cover apartment; there's something to be said for keeping one's story as close to the truth as possible, but that would be pushing it a little far.) It was only at Andy's insistence that he even gave the idea of adorning his desk a passing thought. She'd been in there a million times before she noticed the total absence of non-work-related paraphernalia, sitting on the edge of the wooden surface and chatting with him while waiting for him to finish up (his complaints that distraction was counterintuitive to actually leaving neither heeded nor emphatic), but she didn't bring it up until the day he was slammed and they were late for a realtor's appointment.

"Come on," she wheedled, gesturing to the bare desk. "You _have_ to decorate. I mean, you actually have an _office_."

"I _share_ an office," he countered, but eventually he promised that he would, just needed to find something that worked.

It's taken a while, but he's finally got it right, he thinks. (For now, anyway.) The frame on the left displays an enthusiastic Mason and a too-cool-for-this but still smiling Emma; they're crouched on the grass, flanking a shaggy black dog with oversized floppy ears and a face like Chewbacca from Star Wars. (Andy laughed at him for a full five minutes when he first made the reference; asked between gasping chortles if he ever dressed up for premieres or had light-saber battles with his friends. When she calmed down, telling him she was just joking about him being a sci-fi nerd and that she loved him, his reply of "I know" just set her off all over again.)

He gets the idea of it a little more now, of taking pictures for posterity and preservation. Likes having them around, now that there's a lot more to preserve.

* * *

_On their first morning off together in weeks, Andy informs him that they're going on a field trip and she's driving. He briefly considers reminding her that they should probably be packing, or at least _thinking_ about packing, but she's clearly beside herself with excitement about this little surprise, and he has a feeling that he'll lose the argument no matter what. So he pours his coffee into a travel mug and heads out to the truck._

_Once they're on the road, she asks him about Boo Radley – why he's always loved it for a dog. "And I don't want to hear 'I don't know' or 'It's more original than Rover'," she warns. _

_He takes a deep breath and starts at the beginning. How he was assigned to read the first two chapters of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ as homework back in junior high, but how he couldn't put it down and powered through the entire book that night. (How he read the whole thing three more times before his class got through it once.) How Boo Radley had always resonated with him as painfully misunderstood and engaged in a constant struggle between the walls around him and his desire to care for others; how close to home that still feels. How in the end, Boo emerges from the shadows as an unassuming protector – which is where bestowing the name on a dog comes into play. "It's what that big slobbery pain in the ass did for Sarah when he were kids," he reflects. "Cleo kind of did it for me, too. Protected us from whatever we couldn't think about, couldn't handle."_

_She's quiet for a long moment, her hand coming to rest on his thigh. "What if the dog we end up with is ten years old and can't adapt to a new name?" she asks finally. "Or it's, like, a fluffy little Pomeranian?"_

"_We're not getting a Pomeranian," he says decisively._

"_Ah," she chides, "you said whatever I wanted."_

"_You _want_ a stupid yappy furball?" he responds incredulously. "And anyway, when are we getting this dog?"_

_She flips on the turn signal and pulls into a parking lot. "Right now."_

"_Wait, what?"_

_Eventually they make their way inside the shelter and approach the front desk. "Hi, Kelly," Andy says with a glance at the staff member's nametag. "I called yesterday about the profile on your website…"_

_The young woman's face lights up. "Oh, yeah! Andy, right? You guys can follow me, Boomer's out back getting some exercise. This is so great, he's the best dog."_

_As Andy starts after the woman, Sam pulls her back. "Boomer?"_

_Andy shrugs. "Apparently it's easier to change a dog's name when you start with something kind of similar or shorten it. And he looks so cute in the pictures, come on…"_

"_Wait, wait, wait," he protests. "If you planned this before I even told you about Boo Radley, then what was all that stuff about ten-year-old Pomeranians on the way here?"_

_She smiles, leaning up to kiss his cheek. "Just keeping you on your toes."_

"_Any more time on my toes and I'll be trying out for the city ballet, McNally," he mutters – but he can't conceal his grin as they head out to meet the dog that's about to become theirs._

* * *

Boo's a good boy – an ideal mix of traits from Schnauzer and poodle and whatever else composes his diverse background. He doesn't beg for table scraps or gnaw on shoes or pee where he's not supposed to; has abundant energy for walks and playtime, but settles down on his big fleece dog bed as soon as he sees them heading upstairs for the night. He's so obedient, in fact, that Sam imagines he could be coaxed into doing anything – although Andy nixed the ring-bearer idea in about three seconds flat.

Still, he thinks as his gaze drifts toward the center photo on his desk, as potentially amusing as that might have been, he has no complaints about that day. Neither of them even knew Epstein had his camera aimed in their direction until they saw their friends' pictures weeks later, but it's hands down his favorite. He and Andy are seated together toward the end of the night, the bowtie of his tux undone and hanging around his neck ("Very nice, brother, very James Bond," he remembers Oliver commenting with tipsy approval). He's gazing down at her with a gentle grin; her own smile radiant, eyes closed as her head rests on his shoulder. Every time he sees it, he thinks that despite its defying all logic, he should've found a way to say to hell with the complications and ask her a long, long time ago.

* * *

_Maybe it's the lack of sleep, but he first realizes he wants this – as in seriously, rest-of-his-life wants this – the sixth or seventh time he wakes her up post-concussion. There's no earthly reason that her drowsy presentation of a double-handed rude gesture should lead to a sudden overwhelming desire to marry her, but there it is. He decides to tuck the feeling away for the time being, though; patience being a virtue and all of that, he'll wait until he's reasonably certain they're on the same page with everything. So as soon as she utters the phrase 'for good', he considers it a green light._

_They decide pretty quickly to look for a new place, because she's technically not supposed to have pets (although she continually reminds him that her neighbor totally snuck in two ferrets and no one cares) and he lives too far away from the division for her to walk on a regular basis. (He reminds her that living together means driving together most of the time, and it's not like they can't look into getting her a car if she wants one, but she's unimpressed: "I like to walk.") His house is on the market for nine days before someone offers the asking price, while her co-op building helps her find a buyer for the condo, so it just comes down to finding someplace on which they can agree._

_Andy immediately dismisses the first two houses they're scheduled to see, refusing to even get out of the car for the second one. (He can't decide if he wants to slam his head on the steering wheel or get down on one knee right there; has a feeling that if things work out like he's hoping, he should expect similar dilemmas for the next fifty years or so.) Third time's apparently a charm, though, because she instantly falls for the brick split-level they pull up to. He talks to the owner, makes sure the place has been kept up-to-date and that the recent renovations were done by someone fairly competent; once he's convinced that the place isn't a total money pit, he just watches her wander around inside, waxing ecstatic over the wood-burning fireplace and the cushioned seats built in beneath the bay windows. She looks at him hopefully, and he nods. Their offer is accepted not long after._

_During the process of moving, of closing dates and escrow and packing (all the mutual decisions they have to make about what to keep while consolidating their possessions are about as smooth as sandpaper on broken glass), he has a furtive side project of his own going on. Nash catches him scrolling down a Google results page for 'how to buy an engagement ring' – apparently it _wasn't_ safer to research at work – and after ten minutes of "Oh my God, are you _serious_?!", offers her assistance. He wavers, but the next day she hands him a case file filled with articles on the four C's of diamonds. "Jerry used these when… You know, he'd be really happy about this," she tells him, her smile slightly wistful but sincere._

_So he reads, takes into account all three thousand variables the articles mention, and realizes that he's even less sure of what to do than before he started. (Square zero seems like an accurate descriptor of his position.) In the end, he throws himself on the mercy of a sympathetic jeweler and hands the file folder back to Nash with half a dozen pictures of rings inside. Ten minutes later, she drops it on his desk, one image circled several times in red ink and followed by a bunch of exclamation points. It costs him years' worth of poker winnings and then some, but he couldn't care less._

_He thinks about coming up with some slick or clever proposal, maybe paying a pizzeria to spell out the question in toppings, but his inability to consider it without cringing leads him to realize that he's just not that guy. So he bides his time until they move in, giving it an extra week until they're basically unpacked and settled. She's been dropping hints about a housewarming party since they closed on the place, the comments becoming more frequent and less subtle as time has elapsed; he decides that's going to be his game plan._

_She's in the backyard throwing a tennis ball to Boo when he gets home from work; he heads outside, leaning over the railing of the deck. "Hey."_

_She looks up briefly, grins and waves. "How was your day?"_

_He shrugs, starting down the steps to the yard. "The usual." He has no intention of being derailed with small talk right now. "Come here a second." _

_She begins to make her way over to him, the tennis ball still in her hand; Boo follows, sitting and looking up at her expectantly once she stops. "Yeah?"_

_He exhales, the box concealed in his hand behind his back. "I was thinking about the housewarming."_

"_Really?" She smiles. "When do you want to do it? Because I thought we could…"_

"_That's the thing," he interrupts, flipping the box open with his fingers. "I was wondering if… maybe instead, we could have a different kind of party here." He brings the box around, tilts it so the late afternoon sun reflects off the diamond._

_She goes dead still, eyes wide and mouth opening and closing wordlessly. Boo eventually starts nosing at her hand impatiently; she fires the tennis ball across the yard without removing her gaze from the ring. "I don't know what to say." _

_He chuckles, just this side of nervous. "My suggestion would be 'yes', but, uh… up to you."_

"_No, I mean…" She's incredibly flustered now, looks like she's about to jump out of her skin. "I don't know what to say, because… you actually have to _ask_."_

_He grins; how he managed to forget the key component in all of this, he'll never know. "Marry me, Andy?"_

_She starts nodding, slow giving way to vigorous. "Yes." Tears are gathering in her eyes. "Yes, of course, I…" She's in his arms almost instantly, the ring on her finger and Boo temporarily left to his own devices._

_He's serious about the 'different kind of party,' likes the idea of something down-home and simple. She's of a similar mindset; in their experience, plans for elaborate weddings, destination or otherwise, seem to go down in flames more often than not. Sarah congratulates them warmly when he calls to tell her; after asking about their fledgling ideas, she begins a rapid-fire conversation (mostly with herself) about tents and caterers. _

_They somehow pull the thing off in six weeks – no attendants or string quartets or any of that, just thirty relatives and close friends on rented chairs in their yard. (His mom makes the trip from St. Catharines with the rest of his family; the ceremony is about all she can handle before Rob drives her back to the hotel, but she still looks happier than Sam can remember seeing her at any point in the last several decades.) They eat; they dance a little; Oliver drinks too much and makes an incoherent but highly entertaining speech. It's pretty much everything he could've asked for, and if the glow in Andy's cheeks from start to finish is any indication, the feeling is mutual._

"_You good?" he asks her quietly after everyone leaves. His jacket lies forgotten on a chair, her shoes resting nearby in the grass. _

_She smoothes the gauzy white fabric of her dress, smiles up at him. "Never better."_

* * *

He never saw himself as the marrying kind. No one else did, either, apparently; it's part of the reason things became so strained between Zoe and him. (They got along like gangbusters for years, until Izzy's best friend's dad ran off with another woman and Zoe came up with the irrational but unbending belief that perpetual bachelors were a bad influence.) But it turns out that he kind of really is. Marital status aside, he knows damn well that he's only had eyes for Andy for years – everyone who's ever spent more than twenty minutes in their presence knows that, probably – but something about making it official really seems to agree with him. With both of them.

About three months after they got hitched, a new training officer transferred in; tried to bet him on her third day that she could get a suspect to crack faster than he could, then said a bunch of cryptic stuff to him about some fancy pizza place if she won. Not that he's ever considered himself especially dense, but it took him a good long while to figure out that she was flirting. _She's new_, he told himself. _She doesn't know_. Still, he was wearing a wedding ring, for Christ's sake, and who would… When he handed Marlo the case file to finish up her paperwork from the arrest, he made sure his left hand was prominently displayed, politely responding to her suggestion, "Good work, Officer."

He downplayed the little there was to discuss when he mentioned it to Andy; he was hardly an expert in marriage-related communication at that point (still isn't), but he knew enough to be aware that things would be rather uncomfortable if he didn't disclose it and she found out later. Andy loathed the idea of being insecure about that kind of thing, so he wasn't too surprised when she laughed it off. Still, she was pretty much all over him for the rest of the night; parked herself on his lap while they were watching TV and refused to move even after her leg fell asleep. (It got so bad that he had to carry her upstairs.)

The next day, she was riding with Marlo. (_Do you think the universe has a plan for us_? he remembers her asking. _Yes_, he wanted to answer now, _and it involves my hair turning prematurely gray._) He warily texted her around lunchtime, the standard _how's your day going_ that wasn't out of the norm, but he cringed a little when she replied, _Fine_. _I'm gonna kill her, but fine._ She kept it together and professional despite her apparent internal stewing, though, with no mention of any of it until they were back at the barn at the end of shift. Sam waited for her outside the locker room; she grinned and took his hand before turning back to Marlo and asking with a deadly sweet smile, "You meet my husband yet?"

The whole thing is tremendously unlikely – the idea of someone like him and someone like her making it work despite their backgrounds and differences – but it works. And speaking of unlikely… The rightmost frame is the most recent addition to his desktop. Andy took that one; she's ridiculously skilled at wielding the camera while simultaneously coaxing a smile out of her most frequent subject. Tufts of dark downy hair, Andy's eyes and his nose, a tiny fist pressed into a toothless laughing mouth – it's more or less a miracle he gets any work done at all when he's got that to look at.

* * *

"_That was my doctor," Andy announces, walking into the room as she puts away the cordless phone. "My pill got recalled."_

_It's two days after their first anniversary; they went out to dinner, though she insisted on skipping dessert in lieu of stale, freezer-burned wedding cake. (He choked down one bite; she made it through three before admitting that some traditions have no place in the modern world. They ended up going on an ice cream run, fancy-restaurant clothes and all.) _

_He looks up from the electric bill. "Huh?"_

_She sighs and takes a seat beside him at the kitchen table. "Apparently a bunch of studies showed excessive side effects. Like, of the potentially fatal nature. So it's off the market now, and we have to figure out something else."_

_He raises an eyebrow; she's always insisted that this be her responsibility, based on the fact that she's got a lot more options available. "Did the doctor mention what else there is?"_

_She shrugs. "There are a few choices, but I don't really like any of them. Or I could start with another brand, but… I don't know. How long before the next one turns out to be horrible and gets recalled, you know? I mean, I _could_, if you're more comfortable sticking with what we've been doing, but…"_

"_Your body. You don't want to take something, I'm sure as hell not gonna make you." _

_She nods slowly. "I guess… I mean, there's always the option of just not doing anything for a while. We've always kind of said, 'if it happens, it happens', right? And I've been on the pill for more than five years. It usually, you know, takes a while for things to sort of regulate themselves when you first stop taking it."_

_Three weeks later, as they stare at a tiny pink plus sign on a plastic stick, he can't help but remark, "Looks like things are pretty well-regulated, sweetheart."_

"_Shut up," she mutters. "Just… Shit, Sam, I'm sorry, I didn't think there was any way that we'd…"_

"_Hey," he says, turning her to face him with both hands on her shoulders. "Don't do that. This isn't a bad thing, it's… if it happens, it happens, right?"_

_She leans toward him, her forehead bumping into his. "Right. Not a bad thing."_

_He believes it, but it doesn't mean he isn't terrified. As soon as he thinks he's got his head wrapped around the idea, they go for the first appointment; the sight on the ultrasound screen of a tiny alien-like blob, complete with rapid flutter of a heartbeat, obliterates his tentative composure. He keeps up a calm appearance for Andy's sake – after her initial reaction, she's been taking things in stride, and he'd like to do whatever he can to keep it that way – but he's pretty much losing his mind._

"_Andy's pregnant," he blurts out the second Oliver walks into the house, early for poker night. (She's out – dinner plans with Tommy.) _

_Oliver smiles, pats him on the back. "Congrats, brother. You happy?"_

_Sam nods. "Sure. Sure." He hesitates. "It's, uh… I feel like I'm gonna pass out every time I think about it."_

_Oliver laughs. "Yeah, happened to me three times. You'll be fine."_

"_What do I… look, man, I have no idea what to do."_

"_Read the books." Oliver looks unconcerned. "And don't worry – this all goes away after the kid's actually here."_

"_Seriously?"_

"_Yep." Oliver nods sagely. "Then you have a whole new bunch of stuff to be terrified about."_

_Andy starts showing; goes on desk duty. She doesn't complain about it once, though Sam's fairly certain it's driving her nuts. For his part, he reads the books, goes to the classes, manages not to roll his eyes when the Lamaze instructor refers to him as 'the birth guardian.' He sits with Andy when she's not feeling so hot (it doesn't take long before she gets over her refusal to let other people, namely him, see her getting sick); once her appetite comes back, he ensures they're well-stocked in her cravings du jour. (They're not as weird as he anticipated, but he can't say he could've predicted the two-month-long eggplant phase.) Once she starts feeling the baby move, she calls him over at every available opportunity to place a hand on her belly. Every time, it's completely bizarre – and the coolest thing he's ever experienced._

_When she goes into labor, he's in his fifth consecutive hour of interrogating an infuriatingly uncooperative suspect; he considers it divine intervention to prevent him from strangling the guy. Nash takes over in the interview room, and he high-tails it home, helping her into the truck along with the bag that's been packed and sitting by the door for weeks. Once she's checked in, ugly hospital gown on and monitor strapped across her torso, he cannot for the life of him recall what the stupid fucking books say he's supposed to do – so he plays it by ear. Holds her hand during contractions, rubs her back when the pressure starts to build up, obligingly leaves the room when she screams at him that she never wants to see him again – but remains close enough so that he can go back in when she tearfully calls out for him two seconds later._

"_This is all normal during transition," the nurse attempts to reassure him the third time it happens._

_He runs a hand through his hair, surprised more of it hasn't yet fallen out. "Yeah, normal's not really what we do best."_

_But then the doctor comes in, announcing that it's time to push, and Sam watches Andy turn into a different person entirely – one who both amazes and scares the hell out of him. Suddenly, there's Leah, messy and squalling at the top of her lungs, and it's exactly like Oliver said and then some. _

_Every sleepless night that follows, the bathtimes and feedings and the shockingly strong grip of her little fingers wrapped around one of his own, he realizes all over again that he never knew he could love like this. And watching Andy with her from the doorway of the nursery, Leah asleep in her arms as she sits in the rocking chair… yeah, he's pretty hard-pressed to think of any better image._

* * *

"So did you actually get anything done today, or did you just sit there and stare at all the pretty pictures?"

He looks up, startled; grins when he sees Andy in the doorway, already out of uniform. "I'll have you know these were your idea."

She shrugs. "To be fair, I thought you were less distractible – but that's okay." She smiles. "You about ready?"

"Yeah, give me a minute to finish up."

He saves a few files on the computer and stands up, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. Overtime has been something of a way of life at Fifteen as of late, so it's already dark by the time they get out to the parking lot. "What time are we picking up Leah from your dad's?"

"He said whenever; he doesn't have plans tonight. He knows it's been a long week for us, so he's going to get her fed and bathed and all that."

Sure enough, Leah's in her pajamas and falling asleep in Tommy's arms when Sam rings the bell. She passes out in her car seat, not even stirring when he lifts her up again to bring her into the house. They both watch her for a minute after placing her in her crib, her chest rising and falling as her hands curl into fists up on either side of her face. Boo follows them into the nursery, curling up on the floor beside the crib; it's been his new favorite spot since the day they brought Leah home. "It shouldn't be this mesmerizing," Andy whispers. "I mean, sleeping baby – who'd think that could generate so much interest?"

He just grins, hand on her back. Eventually, they turn up the monitor and shut off the lights, heading back downstairs.

"We should figure out something for her birthday party," Andy remarks once they're in the kitchen. "I mean, I know _she_ won't remember it, but you only turn one once, right?"

He nods. "We'll come up with something, we still have a few weeks. God, what a day."

"I know." She sighs. "Did you eat already? I got roped into ordering Chinese a couple hours ago, but at least Eric paid. Probably to make up for the fact that he's hopeless at paperwork."

"Now you understand why having a rookie is awesome and frustrating at the same time." He smiles and starts toward the cabinets. "I had a sandwich. If you want, I was thinking we could maybe crack open that wine we've been saving for a night like this?"

She shakes her head. "No, I'd rather not."

"No?" He looks up at her, surprised.

"I, uh…" She looks shy suddenly, a tentative smile playing on her lips. "I don't think I'm going to want any wine for a while, actually."

"Really." He's trying not to think too hard about where this is going, although… "How long is a while?"

"You know." The smile widens. "Nine months or so."

He laughs, walking toward her. "Are you serious?"

She puts her hands up, nods.

"When did you…" He rests a hand on her cheek.

"Annual physical today," she says. "You know how they do the chest X-ray? When you have two X chromosomes, they have to make sure you're not pregnant first."

"You didn't get the X-ray."

"No, I didn't," she grins. "So, um… so you're okay with that, then?"

He gently backs her up against the counter, presses his lips to hers. "Yeah, Andy. More than okay."

She loops her arms up around his neck, head leaning down against the crook of his shoulder. When he pulls back to look at her a few moments later, she's laughing, shaking her head in disbelief.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing," she assures him. "Just… who'd ever have thought we'd be doing this for the second time around?"

"Mmm, I don't know," he shrugs. "I'd say second time around has been pretty good to us."

* * *

A few years ago, he asked for a chance, having no idea then that it could potentially lead to this. He wouldn't trade it, though. Would wait twice as long if he had to do it all over again.

This is worth it.


End file.
